


loose ends

by kaixo (ballpoint)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 07:56:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 21,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8615899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/kaixo
Summary: Eric Dier, an aristocrat flirting with disaster, has found himself suspended from his family's firm due to his inability to control his drinking. Dele Alli is back in London, in between music gigs and battling with family affairs that he'd rather avoid, thank you very much. Both of them meet in a bar in London on a Tuesday, and the story starts from there.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ourseparatedcities](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ourseparatedcities/gifts).



> Hey, ourseparatedcities, I had to crack your prompt apart to get everything in. Here's hoping I've stuck the landing!
> 
> Hand-waving re: music theory, music production, distances in London might be further than they appear. 
> 
> Thank you to rechargeable-battery over in tumblr for the cheerleading. I'm sure she was tired of hearing me jabbering on about it, but had the grace to talk me down a ledge or five!
> 
> Shoutout to king-gotze for giving this work a look over, all mistakes are mine.

_-Belgravia. Thursday._

Eric couldn’t _Adam and Eve it_ it, not really. 

“Looking good, hey Dele put your hand -” the photographer made a vague gesture at Dele’s hand splayed across the inky curve of his partner’s shoulder. 

“Yeah, mate, just like that,” the photographer cheered over the _pop_ of the shutter, the glare of the lights brighter than the day outside, the heat from the lights and equipment making Eric sweat through his Turnbull and Asser shirt. 

Dele sprawled across the bed commandeered for this purpose; a bottle of champagne in hand, the lithe form of the supermodel of the moment in another. Dark glasses at the tip of his nose, lips curved with mischief. Barefoot, jeans riding low on hips, shirt buttons half undone. 

The mood one of lazy sensuality; as if the world and all their camera phones stumbled into his room catching him off duty, but him being game enough to invite you into his playground - no bed too small, no amount of bodies too much. 

Every minute a party, if you wanted it. 

Sweating now against the heat generated by the lights and equipment in the room that no oversized bladeless fans going at full power never seemed to quell, Eric shucked off his jacket, and loosened his tie. 

The wallpaper fussy in the way of grand old residences in this part of the world; a backdrop to the frenzied metalwork of the head rest, the silver brocade against the granite of the bedcovers artfully crumpled and twisted at the foot of the bed screamed _excess_. 

Music thumping in the background; dark, layered beats paired with a female’s cool cryptic lyrics, overlaid with a male voice murmuring, slipping in and out of the borders of the song like a voice at the edge of one’s dreams. Shadowy figures with video cameras capturing the motions in front of them.

With every click of the shutter, Dele and - 

“Daphne luv, just give us a look as if we -”

An artful toss of her shaved head, she tossed a look over her shoulder, lips half open, slicked with glossy fuchsia lipstick that vibrated against her dark skin like neon. The look she sent in the photographer’s way could have peeled the chrome detailing of his car; heat crossed with irritation as if he and the rest of the world had interrupted their _moment_. 

Eric took a step back, wincing as his head hit the wall. 

“ _Juuust_ like that,” the photographer crooned, a smile scything across his face. 

***

“And done.” 

“ _Finally_ ,” Daphne snapped, her voice with its East London glottal stops mashed with the sing-song of fashion camp at total odds with her exotic features. Her feet swung and hit the ground, her hands smoothing down the slip of ivory fabric that made up a dress, riding high on her leanly muscled thigh. 

As if summoned by thought, an assistant appeared from nowhere, slinky pale robe held up for her to slip her hands through. 

“Wanting to leave so soon?” Dele grinned, in a second going from moody satyr rockstar to someone you’d have a kick about with, or share a drink in a bar like they did when they met.

“Always,” Daphne replied, smiling at the pale intern who brought her a bottle of Evian. “Thank you, lovely-” her features warm and welcoming, a far cry from the spiky attitude she displayed about five minutes ago. She pivoted, facing Dele, hand on cocked hip. Even in a pose like this, away from the cameras, she still seemed to be in the viewfinder. “It’s not as if I don’t have better things to do than hang with you, cheeky sod.”

“And I thought you booked this gig because you liked me,” Dele now seated upright, his fingers working the buttons through their buttonholes, his bare chest disappearing from view. 

“Keep thinking that, Sunshine.”

Dele laughed, all boy. A small shock to Eric, after seeing Dele in ‘model mode’, his face serious, features fox like and striking. He smiled at the other assistant who handed him a bottle of water. After a casual 'thanks' he lifted it to his lips, only to stop in mid-motion as he waved - a silly, childish thing. 

Silly. Childish. Contagious.

Enough for Eric to raise his arm to wave back, but catching himself in time.

“Diet,” Dele greeted, “you’re here.”

“I had a meeting nearby,” Eric lied. Actually, it had been in Slough. The last of them for some time, and he batted the resentment away. 

After the final round of smiles and firm handshakes, he’d hustled out of the building, prebooked cab idling by the pavement, Eric loath to use his assigned driver for this errand that he really shouldn’t have said yes to. Especially since that meeting would be the last one he’d take for a while. 

Dele, with his dark eyes gleaming with mischief and triumph didn’t need to know. 

Dele already had enough of an advantage since the day they met a few days ago, and honestly - _honestly_ \- he didn’t need anymore. 

“Ah,” Dele swung his feet from the bed to the floor, kneecaps peeking out through the artfully distressed jeans. “You’ve eaten, then?”

“Yeah.”

“Lucky for some... Hey, Danny,” Dele held his hand out, palm up as he greeted the photographer who’d been conducting the shoot. A slap of palms, before exchanging an one armed hug with the back slapping. Danny stepped back, a stocky built man, his dark skin a shocking contrast to his platinum blonde hair, dressed in all black. 

“That shoot was _live_ , man,” Danny complemented, before putting his hand to his mouth and yelling, “You were _mint_ Daphne, as usual.”

From the far side of the room, Daphne giggled and fluttered her eyelashes, going from remote and unmoved uber model cool to teenage girl from Watford, as she waggled her fingers in a flirtish wave. 

“How do you _do_ that, mate?” Dele shook his head. “The most I get is a pat on the head from Daph, and you get - _that_.”

Danny sighed and rolled his shoulders, a man who didn’t know the source of his own charms, but he wasn’t going to question his good luck. “It’s a burden I bear, mate.”

“Are you hearing this, Diet? Have you ever heard a bigger load of shite in your life?”

“It’s his burden,” Eric said, neutral as Switzerland. 

“This guy knows,” Danny laughed, as he stepped forward, arm outstretched. “Hey, I’m Danny.”

“Eric Di-”

“Diet, right? That’s what it said on the visitor’s log. Interesting name, that.”

Eric shot a sharp look at Dele, who smirked in response. “No,” Eric pivoted his attention to Danny, shaking his hand politely. “It’s _Dier_ . Don’t listen to him, that’s his smartphone being not so smart.”

Danny laughed, before looking at his oversized watch face on his wrist. Around them, the lights popped off, leaving the quiet glow of twilight behind, the noises of creaking and scraping of equipment as it got packed away by a swarm of assistants and hired hands who seemed to appear from nowhere. 

“That’s Dele for you, mad,” Danny agreed, before snapping to business. “Anyway, it’s been nice meeting you, Eric.”

“Same here.”

“That’s my day done,” Dele got to his feet, swiping his Bans from his face, and hooked them in the neckline of his shirt. 

“So early?” 

“We’ve been here since nine am-” Dele broke off, raising his hand to cover his mouth as he stretched and yawned, the movement shifting the hem of his shirt, a wink of skin before it settled back again, moody paisley patterned silk on denim. “And it’s now...”

“Eight,” Eric said belatedly, dragging his gaze from Dele’s shirt hem to his face, Dele’s gaze already distant, his mouth in a wistful curve as he contemplated an upcoming meal. 

“Hmm, not too late to get something to eat then.”

“Didn’t you get anything from craft service?”

“Bagel, smoked salmon and porridge with compote for lunch, but that was _ages_ ago. Where should we go?”

“We.”

“Yeah, we,” Dele rolled his shoulders. “ Do you have something against food?”

“No,” Eric dragged out the word, half hesitating, wondering how the hell he’d ended up here in the first place, with a guy he barely knew, and in the trendiest part of London on top of it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Tuesday**

“Twelve o'clock is too early to be drinking in London,” Flea’s voice pricked at his conscience like that cricket with the brolly on Pinocchio’s shoulder. 

Or, would have pricked, if Dele cared, phone at his ear, strolling into what one would have called a dive. The sort of place that gentrification in London eyed and gave a polite nod to, before swiftly hurrying past without even being polite enough to drop some coins in the bowl. 

This the type of bar that always seemed dark and cavernous cool, even with the sunblast of a day outside, one of the three days of English summer in July. 

“ _Dele_ ,” the voice over the phone so petulant, he could almost see his assistant’s pout. Flea’s tight curls whipped into a topknot, clad in Equipment silk blouse, her leather leggings teamed with pastel coloured Adidas gazelles. _So I don’t look too done, you know?_ she’d say before rolling her eyes. _Cringe de la cringe_. 

“I thought you were in Ibiza, darling.”

“I was.”

“No one expects you until Thursday.”

“Yeah, and-?”

“It’s Tuesday. Fischer called and-”

“It’s Tuesday,” Dele repeated pointedly. 

“Fine,” Flea drawled, her voice oddly soft at his rebuff. 

In his mind’s eye, Flea would be leaning against the desk, tapping her nails on the slick surface, counting down to the end of the day when she’d have a crafty fag, the thought relaxing her so much, it made her voice chipper. 

“Shoot in Belgravia on Thursday, darling. Six am call. _Ta rah_.” 

Clicking the phone off, Dele scoped his surroundings. 

Dive. 

TV at the back of the bar, above the rows of bottles turned upside down; notched in shelves above the serving counter, pinned to the back wall, with their stoppers on. Before the carefully tended surface of the bar bar, scarred tables were placed at the front, teaming with stout chairs. On top of the tables menus so well used, the laminate now peeling, the print almost indecipherable. 

The floor underfoot varnished, and thick enough for him to see a child’s neon green lego and action figure floating in the thick layers of varnish built up over the years. 

Given the time and the heat of the day, Dele was not surprised to see the bar almost empty. Save someone hunched over the stool, his hair a dull gold in the gloomy light of the bar, because even the ceiling bulbs were past their best, looking to pop into darkness at any time now. 

“Miss,” the guy at the bar said, pointing to his glass. “Again, please.”

The bar lady looked sixty if she looked a day, but moved easily enough to refresh his glass with spirit measures of Hennessy. 

If it had been another day, Dele would have left him alone. For all of Britain’s lax drinking laws, save for football and Wimbledon, no one really hit the sauce at twelve o'clock unless they had a problem. This guy seemed to be trying to forget one at least, jacket off and folded neatly on the stool beside him, dress shirt sleeves rolled up to elbows, tip of nose and tops of his cheeks just a bit too rosy. 

Hennessy slid down your throat smoothly enough, but dragged you into its riptide before you knew it. 

In addition, it was Tuesday, and after a self imposed holiday in Ibiza, Dele had grown restless.

***

“Honestly?” Alex’s voice spiked with annoyance as she shot him a look over her bare shoulder, body gleaming with lotion and tiny bikini bottoms as she refused to let any bikini lines mar her tanned shoulders. “Already?”

“London calling,” Dele half sang the old tune by _The Clash_ , adjusting his shades as he looked out at the Med, feeling the gentle tug and sway of the yacht underneath them, its stem pointing towards the mainland.

“You can always say no,” Alex retorted, as she shifted from lying prostrate on the deck to her feet, her movements studied and graceful like the dancer she’d trained to be.

_”Alex-”_

“You don’t want to,” Alex interrupted, “just-”

“I’ve got to go back.” Dele said, not knowing how to explain, restlessness tugging at him.

”To do nothing of importance. You still have two days.”

“Alex,” Dele dragged her name out, hoping to ride out her mood. “I want push this exhi-”

Alex pushed at her hair, which the wind tugged and pulled from its loose braid, blowing across her face and shoulders like a black mantilla, her eyes cool and green. “I’m not coming with you.”

“I didn’t ask.”

Alex flinched, pressed a hand to her cheek as if she’d been slapped, her voice frigid and cutting in the way that only the aristo - or those trained in received pronunciation at RADA- could do. The words sharp in their intent, barely blunted by the plummy tones of cool displeasure.

“Right,” she said, finally. “I shan’t stop you.” 

With that she hooked her fingers into the gauzy coverall tucked in the corner of the towel she’d been lounging on. Head straight, shoulders back, as she stalked towards the music and the voices of the rest of the party in full swing on the other side of the yacht. 

Dele turned and watched Alex slink down the steps, into the gallery, before looking out at the sea again. He’d been unable to put a finger on his restlessness, but knowing the feeling too well to try and ignore it. 

And that’s how Dele found himself here, in a dive, asking for the same drink that Captain Britain here was having, holding up two fingers, as he righted himself on the bar stool. 

Two fingers of Hennessy, splashed over rocks of ice. Dele held up his glass in salute. 

“A bit early for that, don’t you think?”

“Says you,” Dele pointed to the guy’s glass. 

“Oh yeah,” his nameless companion lifted his drink, swirled it enough for the ice to clink against each other and the smooth walls of the glass. “Pimms o’clock,” and if his eyes were a blurred blue under light eyebrows and lashes, and if he swayed a little, to the point where Dele touched his shoulder to set him to rights, it didn’t matter. 

“Have you - have you ever been faced with a choice that was so mindbogglingly shit you wonder what you were thinking?”

“Yeah,” Dele smiled, as he gave a gesture that took in the bar. “Me, being here.”

“I walked into that one,” a dopey grin, before he stretched out his hand, silver Tag Heuer on the wrist, metal gleaming in the dull light. Dele knew that brand of smart shirt. Hugo boss, cotton and silk blend, elbows probably stained beyond all repair on the counter. “I’m Eric, and probably drunker than I should be.”

“Dele, and yes, you are.”

“Cheers. No,” Eric wagged his pointer finger in his direction. “Uncheers. That’s _not_ a compliment.”

“No,” Dele laughed, torn between amusement and sympathy, because Eric seemed really poorly, but you didn’t mainline Hennessy at the height of afternoon and expect to come out on the other side unscathed. 

Eric pressed his head against the scarred counter. “I think,” he whimpered, “I’m going to regret this.”

“I think,” Dele placed a hand on Eric’s shoulder, because he’d been there, and knew the hell of the hangover Eric would be waking up to. “You need some soup down you, and litres of water. It won’t be here, though. Are you up for a trip?”


	3. Chapter 3

Mostly drunk, Eric didn’t remember much afterwards, save being poured into a black cab, his head resting against a bony shoulder, the reverb of Dele’s voice in his ear, barely able to keep up with Dele speaking to the taxi driver as well as to someone on his mobile. Eric’s body now alien and heavy, limbs refusing to respond to his commands. Oh hey, he was himself drifting, and he couldn’t sto-- only for Dele’s grip on his shoulders to tighten. 

“Yeah,” Dele laughed at some shopworn joke the driver must have made at his expense. His laughter staccato, his body thrumming with the movement of it. “Hennessy is no joke. Just like this traffic.”

London in full gridlock wasn’t glorious, but this taxi driver had been around a bit, the wild swing of the car around a corner not doing Eric’s stomach any favours, swooping and looping like a seaside joyride. 

“Oh God,” he moaned, before clamping a hand over his mouth.

“We’re here.”

'Here' meant steam scented ginger sharp and garlic savoury under his nose in a mug. After the first five or so sips, Eric’s head jerked back, his eyes popped open, and cheeks flushed red as if someone had waved smelling salts under his nose. Or mixed camphor balls with spaghetti sauce and disguised it as meatballs. 

_Fff--_

The favours discordant and explosive, shredding his throat. His chest feeling as if he’d swallowed the liquid equivalent of menthol and sixty percent proof rum. 

“What the-?” 

“That good, huh?”

Eric clutched at his throat, as he opened his mouth to speak, only to hear himself squeak. 

A bottle of water appeared in his view. Eric grabbed at it and chugged half of it down. 

“Better?”

“It’s _vile_.”

“Best cure for short-circuiting a hangover, you’ll thank me in the morning.”

Eric made a pained sound of disbelief. “Says you,” he rasped, his lips still tingling from the contact. His vocal cords would never be the same. 

“Drink the rest of it,” Dele urged. “It’s only a mug full.”

“What’s in this thing?”

“I don’t have a Scooby, mate,” Dele smiled, leaning back in the cheap plastic chair. Dutifully, Eric sipped from the mug, wincing at each swallow. With each bleary blink, the rest of the world came into focus. The tinny voice from the tannoy the tube stop just across the road. The illuminated circle of the Underground reading BETHNAL GREEN. People hustling and bustling outside, their coats and light scarves on, despite them being in August. 

The restaurant - if you could be generous and call it that- about the size of someone’s living room, with four Formica tables and mismatching plastic chairs. It wouldn’t win any awards for decoration, with its cracked floor tiles. For all its shortcomings, it seemed popular, with people popping in and out with containers of food. Now that Eric’s stomach had settled, he could appreciate the spices that drifted out into the air as soon as an order came through. Pimento, fennel, spring onions, hints of ginger and saffron - those things he could identify- the other things, not so much. 

“We’re in Hackney, then?”

“Got it in one. You’re looking better.”

Eric didn’t want to give Dele the courtesy of him being right. Besides, just looking at him leaning back in the chair -wearing that garish top with zips and cigarette burns along the length of the sleeves- with that alarming dress sense, he didn’t seem to need any sort of encouragement. Right now, his eyes focused on the screen of his smart phone, his face bright with amusement at whatever he was reading on the screen. 

Eric wondered how quickly he could excuse himself. 

As in, _Right, this has been fun, but I need to go._ Or, _I have to get back to walk my nonexistent dog._

But. 

Dele had done him a kindness, Eric had to admit. Before he had a chance to speak up, Dele leant forward, his eyes wide with realisation. 

“I have to make tracks now, sorry. I need to be somewhere in the next hour. What’s your number?”

“I-” Eric started, half offended, because that had been his excuse, thank you very much, and the cheek, asking for his number before blowing him off. 

“No pressure. I just want to make sure you’ll have gotten home in one piece-” a click and flash from his camera phone half way to blinding him, purple and white swirls behind his eyelids. Crikey, this soup probably made his retinas more sensitive. 

“Wha-?” 

“Just in case you don’t, and inquiries are solicited.”

“God, you have a grim sense of humour,” Eric observed, as he reached for and patted his jacket. His phone and wallet still in its roomy inner pocket. He whipped out his phone, paused for a bit while he tried to remember his password. Eventually unlocked the screen and passed it over. 

Dele had the same type of mobile phone, a rose gold case to his silver. His fingers nimble as they scrolled through contacts on the screen. Quick taps against the LCD screen as he entered his number. 

“Surname?”

“Dier.”

“Ah,” Dele grinned, and shook his head at the screen. Eric frowned, his name wasn’t that amusing, was it? Before he got the nerve to ask, Dele slapped his phone in his hand.

***

“Dele!” Luke McGee waved at him across the crowded room.

Dele made his way over to the table, passing people who were already heads down and nose deep in food. 

_The Eats_ in Covent Garden had been modelled on the idea a one of those ‘food courts’ found in Barcelona and Singapore, but shrunken down to model level, focusing on a fusion of Spanish and East Asian food. 

On paper, it really shouldn’t have worked, but in real life, it mercifully did. The menu simple but flavourful, with accompanying drinks on tap, no generic beer here. _Sake_ or Spanish wine as the alcohol accompaniment, nothing else. 

“So what time is this, then?” 

“Sorry,” Dele reached over and gave his friends high fives and handshakes before settling down in the empty chair. Luke, Patrick and Sheyi seated in the other three, their table already dotted with their meals in various decorative containers and patterned plates. 

“I was on a mission of mercy.”

“Oh?” Luke grinned, his green eyes glittering with amusement. “Is that why you left Alex in Ibiza?”

Dele pulled his chair nearer to the table, his eyebrows arched in surprise. “Word gets around quickly.”

“It’s _Alex_ ,” Luke started, “According to _Hello!_ she was ‘the one’.”

 _Oh, FFS-_ Dele thought, barely suppressing an eye roll, _save me from the British press_. 

“Come off it,” and that was Sheyi, the personification of pouring oil on troubled waters, his dark eyes and a ready smile that put anyone at ease. If he hadn’t dropped out of medical school and fulfilled his mum’s wish to become a doctor, his bedside manner would have been his A game, as he calmed bickering before they became full out arguments. 

“Help yourself to anything of mine, Dele, you must be hungry. I even asked for extra cutlery and an extra plate.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Dele busied himself with a slice of Spanish omelette and Serrano ham. 

“But still, Alex?” that was Patrick, blonde haired and blue eyed, the quintessential toff. Patrick, who studied piano at RCM only to chuck it in at the end. 

“It didn’t work out. It wasn’t her,” Dele told Patrick, “just me. I-” he shook his head, not wanting to get into it. “I needed to come back.”

“To this weather?” Sheyi reached for his lacquered wood cup of sake. “Crazy.”

“London doesn’t need the weather for it to be livable. Did you listen to the stuff I sent?”

“Oh yeah,” Sheyi nodded, “good beats to start from, I tweaked it and layered a few bits and bobs on top, if you want to drop by and give a listen, that would be live, still.”

“I should have my bit done tomorrow,” Patrick volunteered, resting his chin on his fist. “There’s a progression in the middle that’s annoying me. Like, it’s too discordant, yet not busy enough.”

“And I’m just waiting on you lot,” Luke rubbed at his eyes. “Before I finish mine. The storyboards are good to go. I’m meeting with Emma from Somerset House tomorrow, to walk her through the layout. Sonny’s installations are almost ready, it’s ticking along as well as these things go.”

“That’s-” Dele’s phone rang, cutting off his comment. “Sorry,” he excused himself to his table mates. “I have to take this.” He explained as Eric’s face flashed on the screen. The picture taken earlier today, Eric’s hand up, palm out, warding off the flash, his eyes in a squint as if someone had squeezed lime juice in his face. The picture cracked him up, and he placed the phone to his ear.

“I’m home,” Eric said, dragging the last syllable of ‘home’ as if he were a reluctant speaker. “I’m not face down drowning in my own sick, nor unconscious in A and E”

“You’re doing better than most in this city, mate.”

“Ha.”

“Are you free on Thursday afternoon? I’m at The Goring in Belgravia, if you know where it is?”

“ _Belgravia_ ?” A surprised laugh on the other end of the line. “You _do_ get around in the most unlikely places.”

“It’s terribly posh, I think you’d like it. At times, it feels as if you need a passport and credit score to get in.”

“I don’t know if I’ll be free.”

“I’ll leave your name at the reception,” Dele said, aware of three pairs of eyes staring at him from across the table with varying degrees of interest. “If you’re free, brilliant. If not, you’re not.”

“Right. Goodnight, Dele.”

“‘Night.”

As soon as he rang off, Luke gave him a considering look as he sipped his glass of wine. “Your mission of mercy, then?”

Dele met Luke’s stare with his own. “Yeah,” he said. 

“No name?”

“No.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Diet,” Eric shook his head before he sipped at his wine glass that kept getting refilled as soon as he emptied it, by request. “Imagine, me walking into _The Goring_ , and instead of Dele leaving the name of Dier- well. He stands by the excuse that his smartphone malfunctioned.”

Harry chuckled, before attacking his steak with relish. Not too well done, still pink when he cut into the meat, served with fries and brightly arranged salad. 

“Dele- Dele, right? He sounds like a laugh. Having a Thai takeaway after a photo shoot. However did your palate cope?”

Eric poked at his spring onion risotto. “He’s all right. He really did me a favour, considering I had a meeting with my father's lawyer the next morning.”

“Oh yeah, and how did that meeting go?”

“As well as expected.”

“ _Eric_.”

“It’s fine,” Eric waved away Harry’s concern. “It’s -”

“You’re still suspended, then?”

Eric dropped the fork on the plate, the clatter loud enough to cause a few heads to lift from their meals. He mouthed an apology to the distinguished looking grandmother who stiffened at the noise, receiving a stern nod of acceptance in return. The restaurant wasn’t as formal as The Goring’s Dining Room; look, mum -no white linen tablecloths and no Swarovski chandeliers- but just as quiet, with warm lighting and silent waiters gliding by as if they were on ice skates.

“Let’s not talk about it.”

Harry rolled his eyes, showing Eric what he thought of _that_. Okay, when it came to this part of life, Eric would admit to cowardice. 

“It’s not as easy as you think, you know,” Eric tried to explain his position without sounding too needy or defensive, although it was difficult because he had no leg to stand on. “I don’t know why- ”

“At least he’s giving you a way back in?”

“Leave it.”

“It’s either your Dad or Dele.”

“Not Katie, nor your soon to be sprog?”

“I am always up for talking about that, but I’m interested in your life too, see?” Harry smiled, while stirring his soup. “That’s how friendship works. Have you spoken to this Dele since?”

The layers of spring onion risotto were pretty cool, Eric thought. Knowing that Harry wouldn’t leave him alone, Eric hedged. “Not really.”

***

_Staying in?_ Eric’s message had flashed over Periscope.

Dele looked at the message, his finger hovering over the button. His account set to private, because he used it as a beta testing for new snatches of songs previewed to a select few for instant feedback. Instead of being in his studio, he was in his living room, sat cross-legged, with his laptop open.

“Yeah,” Dele laughed shakily, although his frame was swathed in an oversized hoodie, in a heated room, knowing that Eric was on the other side of the screen looking at him made him feel naked somehow. Which was -- odd, considering he only met the bloke a few days ago. “I have work to be going on with.”

_So no XOYO for you, then_

“No,” Dele shook his head, rubbing at the nape of his neck with his free hand, feeling his face warm. “I’m under the kosh.”

_Ah. Well. See you around_

“You can drop in by mine, if you want,” Dele said, offhandedly, “but if you’re stopping by, you have to bring dinner. I can’t cook.”

Dele clicked out of periscope and put his phone to one side, dragging his laptop towards him. Once a week, no matter how busy his life got, he checked his social media. His assistant weeded through his accounts and got rid of the spam on the daily. Dele could deal with insults or the odd criticism, but wading through spam depressed him. 

First stop, Soundcloud, where he uploaded riffs of mixes, experimental songs and stories that didn’t go anywhere, but were too cool to leave in unheard mp3 files. 

The early tries at Trip hop mixes and grime beats that seemed crude and raw to his ears now. The uneven mixes with original songs, and his barking mad twist on the standard _Land of Hope and Glory_ was still one for the ages. 

_I’m so proud of you, and cannot wait for your next move. Your[sic] a star_  
-no 1 fan

Dele scrolled past the message on his wall. Normally, Flea manned his social media, on all platforms, from taking pictures to uploading pictures with appropriate captions. She moderated the comments, left appropriate messages in his name to the odd person on all social platforms, normally something inoffensive and upbeat. Especially in response to the following message:

_Dele, your second LP was mint, you legend, saw your set at Ibiza. Any news on new tours, surprise releases, any think?_

Dele’s fingers curved over the keyboard, not knowing what to say. 

_I’m working on something epic_ , he wanted to shout. It was exciting, a project that kept him awake and away - mixing and blending sounds on the mixing board in his studio, or in DJ Pro on his MacBook, trading ideas with Luke, Patrick and Sheyi, via Dropbox. 

_Maybe ;)_ he typed finally, before pressing enter, his answer authentic. 

_Dele, one day, we can meet if that’s okay with you? No. 1 fan_

Dele bit at his hangnail of his index finger, his mood now stony. To delete the message would show that he still could be reached, that he still cared enough to react. To leave it unanswered irked him. 

His fingers of one hand idly tapping at the over-sized foam Audio - Technica headphones which hung around his neck, the other hand hovering over the trackpad. 

_I don’t want to talk to you_ , Dele wanted to tap out the message. _Can’t you just- leave me alone? It’s not as if you haven’t done it before._

And wouldn’t the press love that narrative? He thought, resting his chin on his linked fingers, his elbows resting on his thighs, his mood stormy. They’d feed on his drama. Never mind that he was _The Guardian’s One To Watch_ , or had some decent bonafides in the music community, and -

His mobile phone rang. This week, it had the theme of Tubular Bells.

“Hello.”

“Dele?”

“Eric?”

“Hey, can you buzz me in?”

“Buzz you -?”

“I’m outside.”

***

Eric, obvious legend in the making, rocked up with food, all right. Delightful meat and vegetable savouries cooked in a flaky pastry, with a main of korean barbeque ribs with accompanying savory pancakes.

“Legend!” Dele shouted, half in relief that he wouldn’t be spending a quiet evening alone with dark thoughts. “I don’t really have a dining table, sorry. You can drop your coat anywhere.”

Eric stood in the middle of Dele’s front room, looking around. There was nothing to see, save a TV, with X-box, sound equipment everywhere and -

“Oh,” Eric took moved towards the mantelpiece, a feature of the former fireplace that didn’t work anymore, since the entire build had radiators along the walls. Dele watched him prowling in his small sitting room, Eric pushing back at his hair that fell right back in place over his forehead, stroking thoughtfully at his sand coloured stubble. 

“You used to play football?”

“A lifetime ago,” Dele answered, placing the take out on the low table in front of the sofa. He slipped into the kitchen - the apartment being an open plan he didn’t go far- to get cutlery, spoons, crockery and glasses. 

“Yeah? Why did you stop?”

“ACL. Sometimes you come back from those, sometimes you don’t.” Dele opened the cupboard, looking at the stacked plates for a minute, a muscle twitching in his jaw, before he shook his head, dismissing the thought. It never helped looking in the rear-view mirror of his life. 

“I didn’t. Not after the second time,” he finished, grabbing two plates. “Did you play?”

“A bit, tennis was more my game,” Eric said, his hands in his pockets of his slacks as he continued to look at the various markers and trophies of Dele’s truncated career. 

Dele tried to lay the dishes on the coffee table in the living room in the best presentation as he could. “Sorry about this, I rarely eat in, or I tend to eat alone, so.”

“It’s fine. I didn’t get anything to drink because I didn’t know what you’d like.”

“There’s always tea,” Dele said, and that was true. Nothing in his fridge but whole milk, and a bag of sugar because you couldn’t have tea without milk and two sugars. “ Where did you play?”

“Abroad, at a little club, nowhere you’d have heard of. Honestly, tennis was more my game.”

Dele shrugged, as he threw himself down on the sofa, understanding what Eric meant. 

English football was no different, with loads of teams playing in the football pyramid, where names didn’t register to anyone if they weren’t from the top two tiers. Like... Braintree Town.

“Did you -”

“Oh, no,” Eric laughed, as he sat down, arranging the cutlery and plates on the table in a nicer way than Dele did. He even folded the napkins, and tucked them under the plates. Then busied himself serving the food out of their takeout bags. “I wasn’t very good. Tennis mad though, I wanted to play centre court, but I wasn’t good at that either.”

And Dele could understand that too.


	5. Chapter 5

Despite the double glazed windows, Eric heard the faint _zzz_ of tyres on asphalt as the odd car whizzed by outside. Looking up from his plate of Korean ribs and savoury pancakes, he took in Dele’s flat. 

Larger than a bedsit, they were in the living room, seated on a leather sofa the colour of bitter chocolate. Apart from the odd clutter that made the place lived in, like the few trophies on the now defunct fireplace, and a clock, the walls were sparsely furnished, save shelves of vinyl records. Apart from that, the decor was pretty much music student. A TV that filled up the wall, with an X-box to its side. 

Shelving built into the walls that held vinyl records, an old fashioned turntable, various boxes with knobs and lights. To the corner, an old electronic keyboard. Two speakers, each the size of a toddler. Microphones, computer parts, and other things that he couldn’t name scattered across the white shelves. 

“Hemel Hempstead.”

“Yeah,” Dele tore a strip off his Korean pancake. 

“I didn’t realise that you lived so far from the centre, I mean. Considering-” Eric stopped, because to ask after someone’s finances was impolite. 

“Considering?” 

To buy time, Eric chewed another strip of savoury pancake wrapped around a hunk of pork. But curiosity niggled at him. “You’re a musician, right?”

“Sort of,” Dele smirked. “Less White Stripes and more Ministry of Sound, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“Ministry of Sound?”

And oh, Eric thought, as he found himself at the end of a puzzled frown. He must have said something wrong. 

“Have you ever been to Ibiza?”

“Yeah,” Eric answered, in the affirmative. “The ramparts, Eivissa, the capital. My mother organised a cycle ride for charity a couple of years ago, I believe. Great Ormond Street.”

“From time to time, I do sets there,” Dele explained, between bites of rib. The red, oily sauce staining the tips of his fingers. “And if I’m lucky, I might have a hit or two.”


	6. Chapter 6

“I hear your father kicked you out of the firm,” Boots’ eyes grew round, hazel orbs surrounded by a fringe of blonde lashes, her fingers curling around Eric’s wrist. “Are you poor?”

“Hardly,” Eric answered, as he caught the bartender’s eye and held up two fingers, his glass in front of him empty. 

“You scared me,” Boots sighed dramatically, fingers splayed across her chest. “I thought I’d have to do a spot of matchmaking. Or delete you from my contacts.”

“Oh, God.”

“You know Deidre Belcher likes you _loads_ ,” Boots ran her fingers through her blowout, bra strap bleached blonde locks that she was terribly vain about. “Not to mention, her family has tonnes of money. I mean, they’re dreadfully middle class, but if any name could take the stink out of their origins, yours could.”

Eric shook his head at his friend, half amused. Boots’ sense of humour tended to be on this side of caustic at times, and she guarded her place in fashionable society fiercely. The bar they were in, firmly situated in the SW7 code, for example, she held court like a queen in her favoured fiefdom. One of those places where you had to be on a list to get in or get a referral to join. All this to come into a bar that was all chrome and marble, and rather bland, but the location trumped everything. 

Being a weeknight, the noise in the bar now muted, people leaning over and whispering while eating finger foods that cost too much money. 

“Thanks, I think.”

“Talk to me,” Boots said, elbow resting on the marble counter top, her hand from wrist to mid forearm covered with multicoloured metal Cartier love bracelets. On anyone else, it would have screamed desperately _nouveau riche_ , but Boots knew how to work the look, keeping the rest of her wardrobe simple; the unrelieved black of the dress that looked like a short and flirty silk bathrobe, bare legged, her feet in the Gucci fluffy slides that had everyone looking as if they’d forgotten to take their bed slippers off once they left the house. 

Her face pixie-like, the burst of coffee coloured freckles across her nose, and no makeup giving her the air of a bratty child. “I come back from the Maldives to get a text from you, Eric Dier, to say that you’ve been sidelined.”

“I am,” Eric admitted. 

“And you’re bored and are looking for something to do.”

“I’m taking some time off.”

“Ah. I’d ask you if this is your quarter life crisis, but you aren’t yet twenty-five.”

“Boots-” Eric stopped to thank the bartender for his refilled glass, and took a sip, appreciating the slow burn of whisky from mouth to stomach. 

“Can’t you just do a gap year and save the natives in far-flung lands like everyone else?” 

Eric didn’t answer, brooding, he took another sip of his drink. 

“Or if you want,” Boots continued, “I could put in a good word at _Tatler_ , get you a write-up, say that you want to mo-”

“And that is my cue to leave,” Eric pushed off his stool, relieved that he wasn’t three sheets to the wind just yet, although close enough.

“Oh,” Boots made a deflated noise, her eyes sober. “I’ve insulted you. I’m sorry.”

“No,” Eric leant over and pressed his lips against her temple. “It’s fine.”

“So will I see you at my twenty-fourth in a couple months time?”

“How many parties?” 

“Twenty-four,” Boots replied. “One party for each year I’m alive. I’ve identified host cities for my parties.”

“Like Uefa and Euro 2020?”

“Sorry?”

“Never mind,” Eric patted her shoulder, as he moved from the bar. “I’ll check your Instagram feeds.”

***

Dele loved his job.

All aspects of it, from the process of pushing and tweaking sounds in the air, until they echoed what played in the soundscapes of his mind. Overlaying sounds in production as he searched for what he wanted his listeners to feel at the time. A remix that had enough base and swing to get your body moving. Or something so chilled, layered synth tones breathy and ephemeral, it brought back memories of your best summer. 

This part of the job though, was the absolute best. 

Him on the stage, slipping in tracks that made the crowd react, and _feel_. 

Maxi Jazz from Faithless hadn't been far off when he proclaimed that any place he stood and played music for the teeming masses, was his church. 

But Dele never saw it like that. He wasn’t there to dictate the masses, just to offer fun to the masses. No, the dance space never really belonged to him, he was just borrowing it for a while, having fun, and leaving another great experience behind. 

At times, when Dele spun, his voice snaking on the edge of the songs, inciting call and response, he felt less of a priest and more like a conductor. It didn’t matter where he played. 

Be it a school concert after school, all those years ago, or here, at _Screw_ in fashionable Spitalfields. Dele tapped as one of a few featured artists of those ‘impromptu’ concerts mushrooming up on Instagram or Facebook feeds, only to disappear an hour later, leaving aborted youtube videos and raves on Facebook and social media. People in the know flocking to various cramped space to hear music from the future, like an Area 51. A beta process of new songs, and people responding to them in time. Dele taking the time to see what hit the back of the net, versus the crossbeam. 

To his left, Patrick on electronic keyboards, adding another dimension to the sound, his classical sensibilities catching people off guard. A frown at _Greensleeves_ scattering through the piece before it warped into sharp beats that compelled you to stomp your feet and wave your hands. The roar and screams from the crowd when they realised the joke, and before they felt tricked, another bit of music to keep them bouncing along. 

“That was great,” Patrick said much later, as they packed away their equipment under the street lights on the road just down the way from _Screw_. Dele nodded, too tired to even get into a conversation as he neared his car. Large enough for his speakers and equipment to get into the boot, but for nothing else. 

“Shit,” Patrick swore, as he reached over to the letter in caught between the windshield wiper and the windshield. “We got a ticket after nine PM?” He huffed. “Fuck this city. Sorry, Dele,” his tone apologetic as he handed Dele the envelope. Dele momentarily froze, before he realised that Patrick didn’t clock that it wasn’t a parking ticket. He stuffed the envelope in his back pocket, swallowing against the lump of rage in his throat. 

“It’s ok,” Dele clicked the button on his fob that unlocked the doors, barely managing to keep the anger from his voice. “I’ll sort it.”

“I’ll pay half, it’s only fair-”

“It’s fine.”


	7. Chapter 7

“Hey,” a snap of fingers in front of his face caused Dele to blink out of his reverie. 

Less woolgathering about last night, and now here in his living room, Eric’s jean clad thigh pressing against his; his hands on the controls, playing a Fantasy RPG. Dele had begged off playing, laptop on his lap, Audio Technica M50x headphones at his ears. He had the intention of going through the track called _Leverkusen_ to tweak and pan out the sound, to do the compression in stages, but.

He’d decided to open the details of his rider instead. 

“Hey yourself,” Dele said, dragging his headphones from his ears, feeling them sliding down and around his head, before dropping against his clavicle. 

Eric paused the game and turned to face him, hair sun-bright in the light of his room, his eyes narrowing with thought. 

“Are you -” Eric started, stopped, did that pause he always did before changing tack. “I’d hate to intrude.”

“You’re fine,” Dele said, head resting against the leather sofa they both shared. He closed his eyes against the light and his room. Normally a mediation trick that worked a treat, seeing nothing but black; an inky space behind the lids of his eyes, a virtual blackboard that he could sketch any probability on the surface of it. His first record deal, the first time he heard a song of his playing on the radio. 

Nothing but blank space.

Dele’s head jerked, his eyes open. Resolute, he pushed the matter away. He was over it, and spending a Sunday evening working on a track on a project he was excited about, with Eric, his new mate who seemed genuinely _mint_. _Give over_ , Dele told himself. Trying for some levity, to lift the atmosphere in the room, he smirked. 

“I’m going over my rider,” he waved at his screen. Eric shifted beside him, their shoulders touching as Eric peered at the screen, eyes narrowing at the details of the rider. 

“You’re playing at Mucky Pups?” 

“Ssssh, it’s a secret,” Dele intoned, as his eyes scanned the rider. “It all depends on if I get a hotel room nearby,” he continued, nodding at the notes. He felt the tips of Eric’s fringe as it tickled his temple, as Eric moved closer to the screen. 

“A bowl of nothing but red smarties, really?”

“Hmmm mmm.”

Eric chewed at the cuticle of his index finger, his eyes on the screen. “Why aren’t they putting you up in a room?”

“My set is only ninety minutes long to be fair, and I live in London. This was also a last minute call up, because ClapTrap dropped out. I’m on the list with Dodgy and Spunky Cat,” Dele couldn’t hide the pride in his voice. Yeah, the gig was relatively secret, but he’d been called up to play with these legends of House Music. “I’d camp on the club floor if I had to.”

“You might want to keep that salient point to yourself,” Eric flicked at Dele’s hand, interested now, his eyes on the screen as he moved the cursor down, reading the small print that Dele couldn’t be arsed with. Dele leant back into the sofa, his eyes on Eric, enjoying his interest. 

“If you really wanted to push it, you could challenge for a free room with this amendment here,” Eric looked up with a grin, and Dele couldn’t help smiling back. “You’d have to give up your red Smarties though.”

“Ha, no. Red Smarties are non negotiable.”

“Suit yourself. But... if you can’t find a room in the area, you can stay with me?”

Dele’s head jerked so fast at this suggestion, he swore he felt the muscles in his neck twinge.

“Really?” 

“Yeah, really.”

“You live near Mucky Pups?”

“Near enough,” Eric answered.

***

Eric had been to music events before.

Parties in Ibiza, where you threw your hands up towards the sky, the air so clear, and the stars so near in the night sky you felt as if you could reach out and grab them, fingers drawing blood from their points. He even did Glastonbury, with the requisite hunter boots, and the Styrofoam container of overpriced chips in hand, the sound stages in the distance, the music of the acts carrying over in the air. Coachella had been another one to tick off the bucket list, sitting cross-legged on the sunbaked ground, grabbing a puff of a joint. 

He’d done his fair share of music nights in clubs too, on the off night of the Academy, moving with the throngs of people, the atmosphere wet with beer and wine and humidity.

Tonight though, seemed different.

Mucky Pups for starters, was small and intimate, with its narrow walls and low ceiling. The floor lights ambient and glowing, making it seem as if they were incubated in a dome. Mist floated through the air having the effect of shadows through gauze, the lights of mobile phones piercing through the haze. 

A beat unfurled. Low and distant, as if rippling at the edges of the club. 

Louder now. Bouncing, arrhythmic, something that threw him off guard. A slight wobble and sway that caused murmurs to ripple through the air before the bass kicked in. The noise building from small and tinny to something fuller that reverbed through skin deep into the bone. 

Beat, beat, beat- BOOM. A cheer went up, as the various layers of the noises came together, kicked in, formed a coherent beat. Lights swooped and spiralled, unrestrained and unfocused, before the lyrics of the song exploded into his ear. 

_Feel the beat again-_ Everyone roared the words, hands waving, lights of their mobiles flashing to life with their motions. Dele on stage, headphones halfway on his ears, his hands shifting around on the controls of his raised stage, white shirt tugging around his frame from the strong current of air from the fans that laboured to keep the equipment and their operators cool. 

Dele worked the crowd, looping their song of longing to hand themselves over to a beat with a sultry satin heat, to something darker, and more _grime_. A curb stomper of a song, imploring the crowd to _Crank It_.

Eric tugged and swayed. It was too easy to give in, to throw an arm around someone - _anyone_. To stomp the ground when everyone else did, the jostle and bounce of bodies into his. Half surprised that the teens of this SW1 neighbourhood actually turned out to do such a thing. 

The wind-rider in the eye of the hurricane, Eric half thought, as he worked his way from the centre of the crowd to the edges, his eyes never leaving Dele. 

No mere deejay just standing there and manning his controls, dispassionately eyeing the crowds, no. 

Dele got into it, stepping away from his controls, throwing a few shapes, the shadow of them projected into the mists above the crowds. Punctuated with a goofy wave at the end. Laughing, and whistling, the crowd shimmied and waved back. 

Eric felt when Dele decided to loosen his grip on the crowd. The music less frenetic, the mixes slowing down and unspooling into something lighter, cheerier. He fed the crowd standards that they knew, everyone singing lustily off key. Light, soothing tunes that skipped along deeper, slower beats to close the set. Over head lights brightening by increments; the mists clearing, shapes appearing as the fog dissipated, melting away like condensation from the windscreen by sunlight. 

By the end of the last song, the rooms flushed with light and flashing exit signs. Everyone wiping away at their eyes as if snapped out of an enchantment and drifted away.


	8. Chapter 8

“Red Smarties,” Eric said next morning, as he swung the door open.

“Hmmm,” Dele tugged his pillow over his head. 

Eric walked towards the curtains that shielded the room from the late summer’s light and yanked at the heavy braided cord, bright light tumbling and flooding every inch of the guest room that Dele was now sleeping in. 

“ _Diet!_ ”

Eric easily side stepped the pillow Dele fired at him. “Missed by a country mile.”

The lump of bedclothes curled around his body, only the top of his dark hair peeking out. Eric thought about it for a moment, shrugged before doing a short jog and leapt into the bed covers and on top of Dele. Dele’s shocked shriek startling a laugh out of Eric. 

“Tosser,” Dele hissed, the word half muffled by the gingham checked bedclothes. 

“The Red Smarties,” Eric started, toeing off his house slippers and setting himself in the pile of bed covers. 

“What about them?”

“You didn’t eat them.”

A cautious movement of sheets, dark eyes peering at him now over the duvet. “You came up here to ask me about Red Smarties?”

 _No_ , Eric thought, feeling his cheeks warm at the question. “Yes,” he said. 

“Nice house.” 

From his vantage point in the bed they shared, with the high ceilings and original mouldings. The room’s walls painted the grey pink of a late summer’s evening, with taupe curtains, maple coloured wooden floors. The furniture vintage, save the bed and mattress. The building grade one listed, and if asked, Eric could have gone into the details of what made the building special. 

“My parents think so.”

“It’s - nice,” Dele pushed himself up, grabbing for his phone on the nearby nightstand. “When you said you lived near Mucky Pups, I didn’t think -”

“It’s just a house.” Eric cut in, smoothly. “Would you like to have breakfast before you go?”

***

No matter how much money Dele had in his bank account - he couldn’t resist a free meal.

The shower he’d had perked him up, especially when he got his head around how the mixers worked. 

Dele stifled a shriek when he got the water much too cold. Halfway jumped out of the shower when entirely too hot. 

Then, Goldilocks style, he had the balance _right_. Grabbing at the entirely too fancy bar of soap, Dele went to work. 

 

Now dressed, with his mobile phone in hand, on the hunt for breakfast, Dele walked through the rooms, taking in the surroundings. Walls done in quiet, sober colours, a contrast to the cheerful framed pictures of family within. Eric with what Dele assumed were his siblings, all varying heights and shades of blonde, ranging from tow-headed to dark ash. Parents hanging out and about, a part of a hand, a leg, but always there. 

Dele turned away, something in another room catching his eye. 

A grand piano. Sitting low and sleek and black and glossy. Artfully arranged so it was out of the shaft of light streaming into the room, but polished and buffed to the point where it looked more like a sleek art sculpture than a musical instrument. The fall board flipped up, keys gleaming. Sheet music taped to the music desk. 

Not his house, and he shouldn’t touch but... 

Dele stood in front of the piano, leant over and tapped the middle C key. Not too high, not too low, the sound sharp and distinct in the silence of the room. 

“Hey Dele, are you still he-” Eric drew up short at the doorway, clad in jeans and a jumper. Ah, if that get up was anything to go by, it really wasn’t a day for short sleeves. 

“Huh,” Eric’s eyes narrowed under beetled brows in confusion. “You play?”

“Not on something like this,” Dele answered in tones of admiration, as he moved through scales. Right hand, C major, the notes crisp and distinct, the sound rippling underneath his fingers. At Eric’s lifted brows, Dele rolled his shoulders. “I learnt to play on an upright, then branched off into keyboard.”

“Oh yeah?” Eric loped into the room, sat on the low long stool, his fingers an automatic curve over the keys. With his other hand, Eric tapped at the space beside him. 

Thoughts of breakfast pushed to the side for now, Dele sat down beside Eric. Close enough to smell the lemon and fig of his cologne. 

Looking at the sheet music taped to the music desk, Eric set off, two-handed, his fingers skimming across the keys. A stirring, frothy bit of music, and Eric paused, waiting for Dele to jump in. 

Dele tapped out a pop song, _Waves_. For a short while, he had been intensely into the original, stripped of its textures and beats post production. On this piano, with its keys striking perfect tune, the lyre pedals underfoot smooth and oiled, Dele found the experience keenly pleasurable. 

“You don’t read sheet music, do you?” 

“Not very well,” Dele admitted, working through the chorus. “I did the Trinity certificate up to grade three, I think - and then -” he grinned, segueing into the bouncy dance hall influenced beats of _One Dance_. “I just stopped because..." he shrugged his shoulders, not wanting to get into it. "You?”

“All the way to grade eight,” Eric answered, and you could see it. The way how his fingers curved, his positions textbook perfect, the placement of hands immaculate as he echoed the notes of _One Dance_ before merging them into the familiar notes _Für Elise_. 

“Gah,” Dele laughed, as he backed away from the keys, and dropped his hands on his thighs, as Eric played on, pulling faces at Dele as he moved through the piece. “That is sick,” Dele said admiringly. 

“My parents’ favourite,” Eric admitted, playing through and hitting the semi-quavers, the notes slow, reflective, his motions small, fingering motions perfect, bringing the piece to end like only it could do. A sort of sigh of hammer and strings, drifting away, leaving a poignant quiet behind. 

“Breakfast, then?” Eric’s voice now loud in the quiet, and he wasn’t a particularly shouty lad in Dele’s experience. 

“Yeah,” Dele stopped, frowned. “You’re not expecting me to cook, are you?”

“No,” Eric shook his head, as he pushed himself away from the piano. “Not at all.”


	9. Chapter 9

_Santos Night club, Lisbon_

“I’ve got to stop drinking,” Eric muttered to himself, before catching the bartender’s eye and mouthing, _Outro_.

Around him, the party raged. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Boots, her wrist to her elbow gleaming metal in the lights, hands in the air, the cloud of her hair swirling and blowing around her face and shoulders. People chanting to _Jumpman_ and wasn’t it just the oddest thing? A club in Portugal with a mostly European clientele, chanting to a song by a Canadian rapper. 

Dele would have had something to say about _that_ , Eric thought, swearing ripely in Portuguese as someone jostled his shoulder, making his drink slosh over the edge of the glass on to his hand. 

“Easy, lad,” and that was Harry, hair gelled in a quiff and looking half asleep. 

“What are you doing here?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing?” Harry shouted above the din. “Considering-?”

Eric took a slug of his drink, “Boots invited me, and she’s always good for a party. I might be a lot of things, but I’m not dead.”

“Yeah, yeah, and besides, it must be nice being in your old stomping grounds, eh?”

“I’m only here for the weekend like everyone else.”

“Right, right,” Harry wiped at his forehead. Even with the a/c at frigid temperatures, the heat of humanity, machines and _everything_ just made the air so close. “Speaking of which, I might have met your Dele, I think?”

Eric swallowed. Hard. Coughed around his drink, half choking in the process.

“He’s _here_ ?”

Harry, good old Harry, caught the bartender’s eye, pointed to Eric’s drink, and wagged two fingers. 

“Yeah, just finished his set, I think. Boots heard about his gig at Mucky Pups and liked him and booked him at the last minute. He seems a nice bloke. Friendly, unaffected. What’s his story?”

“Used to play football, got injured, and music saved him, I suppose.”

“I hope for his sake you never write his press releases,” Harry laughed. “Anyway, if you’re in the neighbourhood, we’re having a picnic at the Belgrave two Saturdays from today if the weather holds?”

“If the weather holds.”

***

“Come to mine,” Eric grabbed at Dele’s forearm, his voice almost lost in the din of the club. “I’m staying near here.”

“Eric-”

Eric looked at Dele, saw the wild light in his eyes. 

Recognised what that look meant; because Eric had seen flashes of it on his own face every day, week after week, every time he caught his reflection on any reflective surface. The seeds of feeling nurtured by innocent fleeting touches, the looks they exchanged more pointed with every glance. When he thought about Dele in odd moments, the tops of his cheeks stained with colour, because, because--

Around them the crowd shifted, shapes thrown about with every swing of light and colour. He knew the lyrics to the Portuguese pop song in the background, a standard that most of the people cheered and sang along to. His brain now a blank, everything fading away into muffled underwater noises and blurred images save Dele. Around them, bodies arched and jumping in celebration, the world alight. Everyone with the intention of dancing the night away and all Eric had ever wanted to do since Harry told him Dele was here was to get Dele alone. 

“It’s not far. Promise.”

Dele looked at him for a moment, and then grinned. “Race you.” 

***

“You cheat!” Eric howled, as Dele broke away from him as they ran along the Avenida Ribeira das Naus. A road along the sea's edge, that boasted ornate statues in the small plaza under the bright street lights. At this time after midnight, the traffic sparse enough for you to hear the white noise of the ocean from The Atlantic lapping along the shore. With his dress shoes, and half drunk, it was a half sprint, half stumble. Late summer in Portugal still called for warm evenings; coupled with alcohol in his veins everything seemed further, and off kilter. 

Frustratingly, for someone with a bum knee, Dele had an easy stride that just kept him out of reach. The dress shoes Eric wore didn’t help with his balance and the cracked concrete underneath. 

“Ah-- _bloody hell_!” Dele hissed as he pulled up, hobbling, Eric closed the distance between them, dragging at Dele’s hand, using it as momentum to propel himself forward. Only to overbalance, his hands flapping wildly, only to feel Dele’s steadying hand on his forearm. 

“”Diet-” Dele’s laughter in his ear, as they clung to each other, arms around each other’s shoulders and waists, just about on the right side of balance. The air around them as warm as Dele’s breath on his face as they crossed the cobbled square. For someone who possessed the BMI of a dragonfly, Dele was pretty strong, his arm around Eric’s waist, half holding him up. 

“This way,” Eric indicated with a toss of his head, as they headed away from the water’s edge, the road narrowing the further they went from the pier, the buildings a little taller and the street lights a bit brighter towards his lodgings. 

“Just-” Eric said, feeling the stout door against his back and shoulder blades, surprised at how quickly they arrived. With the branches of the trees half shielding the streetlights, it felt intimate, cloistered. 

“Eric,” Dele’s hand against his cheek, fingers supermarket chilled, the sensation more notable against Eric’s flushed face. The tone of Dele’s voice distinct, and already so achingly familiar. “You’re alright?”

Eric swallowed, his eyes meeting Dele’s. “I drink a tad too much,” he confessed, “but I’m not drunk.”

Dele nodded, did that half smirk that Eric knew well by now. Emboldened by the knowledge that at _least_ Dele would find the humour in a snog if it ended up the worst, Eric wrapped his fingers around Dele’s wrist, and leant in. 

“Ow,” Dele’s breath gusted along Eric’s jaw. Eric’s nose smushed against Dele’s cheek, his breath hitching in his throat, and oh no, he thought. 

“Don’t laugh.”

“I’m not,” Dele protested, but Eric felt the shudder of Dele’s body against his as he tried to keep his giggles in. 

Eric tucked his head in the hinge between Dele’s neck and shoulder, they were almost the same height, Eric about two centimetres taller. The heat radiating from Dele’s body pleasant, and Dele’s hands on him didn’t hurt either. 

“Diet.”

“Hush, you. I’m too busy expiring from embarrassment here.”

“Eric.” Dele gently nudged him away, Eric straightening up, missing Dele’s presence already. 

“I-” Eric started, unsure of what this was until Dele hooked his arm around his neck. Eric felt his breath hitch, and it wasn’t from embarrassment this time. His eyes sliding half closed as Dele’s lips tentatively brushed against his, as if afraid that Eric might have been the worst kisser ever.

Eric bunched his fingers in Dele’s shirt, pulling him closer. Breathing his air, the angle correct this time, opening his mouth on the second pass, nipping at Dele’s lower lip just because. 

This was pleasant too; the cedar and orange scent of Dele’s cologne and the brine of the Atlantic in the air. The textures between the wooden door and Dele’s body, and he caught in the middle. 

Eric had enough about him to appreciate this moment; exchanging a kiss with someone he liked in a city he loved. 

On a sigh, Eric leaned in. 

The angle of their kiss changed, Dele’s fingers brushing against his jaw, coaxing and asking for more. The temperature of the kiss skyrocketing as Dele’s teeth jounced with his. Hot, with the scald of tongue, and thisclose to sloppy. Weak kneed, Eric walked back into the wall for support, dragging Dele against him, his laugh skittering into a moan as Dele nipped at his lower lip. 

Eric didn’t feel drunk now, not as much as drugged, time and place falling away. His eyes sliding half closed, Dele’s mouth tracing a humid path from jaw to clavicle. And, Eric thought, this was the cue for them to get inside. Now.

“Inside,” he pleaded, his hands slapping at the pockets of his trousers to find the key. One of those old-fashioned lever lock keys; with the bow jutting out, its long shank, ending with the old fashioned throating and key wards. 

“Sssh,” Eric half whispered, breath hitching again, as his fingers wrapped around the key, sliding it into the lock on the second try. 

“Okay,” and that was Dele, half laughing at Eric, his hands under Eric’s shirt, before leaning to steal another kiss. This one slow this time, enough for Eric to feel the textures of it; the jouncing of teeth minimal, the taste of lemon soda and sprite and Dele himself. Eric’s fingers curled on the bannister- because one of them had to mind the stairs- their bodies and clothing dragging against each other. Half intoxicated, but not from drink, with great effort, Eric pulled away, directing Dele to his room. 

“This wahey-”

“This _wahey_?” Dele repeated sounding no less sober than he did the tosser. Eric unlocked the door to his room, with the handy credit card type key. 

“My room,” Eric did a vague wave, his eyes still on Dele. Thrilled as he took in Dele's features, as much as the dim lighting allowed. “Ensuite toilet somewhere, and a bed. Can you believe that this has three stars?”

“No TV,” Dele teased, eyes drifting around the room, the street lights from outside touching the bare wooden floor, double bed, bedside table with lamp, and an old-fashioned chest of drawers. “Shocking.”

Eric and Dele looked at each other, looked at the bed. Looked at each other again. Didn’t have to voice the dare as they sprinted towards the bed. 

Dele got there first, toeing his shoes off with the first bounce, landing on the mattress, grey socks on feet. 

“Winner!” He whisper-shouted, aware that it was still late - or early -depending on which side of the clock you favoured. 

“You’re such a cheat,” Eric admonished, turning to face Dele, their faces a hair’s breath from each other, his body curling toward's Dele's like a cat towards the heat of the sun. “A terrible cheat. How you’ve gotten this far in life, I’ll never know.”

“Whinge, whinge whinge,” Dele grinned. Eric shifted between them to close the gap. Still greedy, Eric brushed his lips across Dele’s again, wanting more. 

More touches, of Dele’s hands bunching the edge of his shirt and dragging it off and over his head and tossing it in the air; Eric eagerly returning the favour, their shirts tumbling from the air like leaves. Another sensation, in seeing how far he would be allowed to go, Eric’s hand against the hardened knot of Dele’s jeans, his eyes on Dele's face as he slipped his hand into the waistband of Dele's jeans, feeling the throbbing hardness against his palm. 

“Eric,” a breath against his mouth, Dele’s skin warm to the point of almost feverish against his. Eric didn’t say a word, his mouth opening under Dele’s, his moans broken into glottal gasps, as Dele’s fingers skimmed across his groin, desire making his mind haze into white noise. _Yes, please_ , Eric wanted to say if he were able to form sentences, _yes_. Yes to this, yes to everything about this.


	10. Chapter 10

The strong summer sun streamed through the gauzy curtains, splashing the room with its rays. Dele threw his arm across his face, hissing in offence like a vampire stumbling into the light. 

_Ow, ow ow_ , Dele blinked against the glare of the sun, his eyes smarting a minute before they adjusted to his surroundings. Half blind, he heard the a/c chundering on, barely keeping the heat away.

Aaaand stop. 

This didn’t look like his hotel room. But those were his Stan Smiths kicked in opposite corners of the room, his jeans wrapped around the leg of the bedside table. 

Oh.

The weight and warmth across his chest, and that was a hand. Dele’s eyes followed the line from loosely curled fingers to bare arm, and stopping at bare shoulder. Eric’s head half hidden by his pillow, sandy lashes long against cheeks touched by the sun. 

Dele nodded to himself as he slipped out of their shared bed and grabbed for his jeans, searching for his phone. 

The room might not have been up to Eric’s high standards, Dele clearly recalling Eric’s mocking drawl as if it were pressed on wax. ‘Can you believe that this room is rated three stars?’ 

However.

The en-suite bathroom was designed in such a way that it brought up the rating of the residence by two stars. 

A shower big enough for him to play a set in for about six people - about twenty if he'd been in Brixton- with a shelf for local soaps and shampoos. An egg shaped soap stamped with the name Claus Porto with the scent of marzipan. The controls of the shower set to mimic the mist rivalling that of a sauna, or the bruising pressure of water pummelling into skin. Dele set the shower controls for the latter, willing himself to wake up, there were twenty-four hours of another day to be had. 

Remembering that he left his equipment behind at Santos, and wondering why on earth he had said yes. 

Admitting to himself when Eric had said, ‘Come to mine’, that he had no chance of saying no, because some part of him had been waiting to be asked for a while. Dele knew that somehow, Eric and himself would have ended up here. Well, not _here_ as in a random hotel in a part of a city that he didn’t know. But _here_ as in-

A rap on the shower panel, Dele wiped at the glass, peering at the blurry figure of Eric’s face on the other side. 

“Morning,” Eric's voice cracked with sleep, his fingers wiping at his eyes. “Please leave some hot water for me.”

“It’s big enough,” Dele raked his hands through his hair, “if you don’t mind sharing.”

Eric blinked owlishly a couple of times, his eyes widening when the invitation finally registered. Dele couldn’t help but chuckle. “You’re not a morning person, are you?”

“I could be,” Eric started, kicking off his boxers, stopping in mid kick as he thought for a bit, and shook his head. “No, no, I honestly couldn't.”

Dele stuck his head under the shower head, shifting his body to give Eric room. Not that he needed to move much. He handed Eric the bar of soap, half amused to see Eric breathing it in, eyes closed. 

“You need a minute, Diet?” 

“Claus Porto,” Eric opened his eyes, smiled, the blue of his eyes warming at the memory. “You don’t really think of soap when you think of a country, but when I lived here, I used to use this brand all the time.”

“It’s nice soap,” Dele agreed, “but I know what you mean. I think of Pears soap, you know, with that scent? Kinda...” Dele stopped, feeling a bit sheepish. Not necessarily sharing a shower with someone; growing up around playing sports and tours on the road squashed your modesty around other people sharpish. 

Not to mention - after last night it would be strange to feel strange about being naked with each other now. 

However, talking to Eric about soap, and a cheap soap at that, especially compared to the one they were using now... This wasn’t even a conservation you’d have while high. 

“Resinous, I think,” Eric answered, his hair now frothy and filled with lather. “The original recipe was pretty much pear fragrance and rosemary.”

Dele smiled at Eric then, stupidly appreciative of Eric’s considered comment on his silly riffing on soap, moving slightly out of the way for Eric to stick his head under the shower head. His moves exaggerated, like a swimmer under the showers after swimming. Eric opened one eye, his hair and eyelashes two shades darkened by the water to a dark gold, making the blue of his eyes pop. 

“Or tea, in terms of, you know,” Dele piped up, because it was nice, having odd conversations about random things. “You think ‘tea’ means ‘strong enough to get your spoon standing up, milk and two sugars.’ Over here it’s just... lemon.”

“I like my tea with lemon.”

Dele shook his head at Eric with the poignant regret of a man who knew The One True Way, but couldn’t convince his mates to go along with it.“That’s not tea, mate. Sorry, but it’s not.”

“It is! Try and have milk in your tea in this heat, and you’d reject it, honestly,” Eric said, rubbing water along his arms. Pale, with a bit of tone, the thatch of hair, the colour of dark gold. 

“I think,” Dele considered, leaning his head to one side, allowing the water to drain from his ear. “We’re going to have to agree to disagree.”

***

Fifteen minutes later, Dele swishing mouthwash around in his mouth because -- he’d forgotten the mechanics of a hookup. Rule one, carry a toothbrush, or mint flavoured floss. Mostly dressed now, and giving up on his hair because Eric had gel and no pomade, Dele gave up, wishing that he’d have grabbed one of his baseball caps from his room last night.

He spat out the mouthwash in the sink, mentally tallying up the day’s tasks before him. 

“What are you up to today?” Eric asked, standing just offside the basin, his head popping through the neck of his dark t-shirt, his hair sticking up in tufts like a dandelion. 

Dele lifted his head from the basin, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. “Swinging by the club to collect my stuff and then catching a flight to London. The usual. Hoping my equipment is still there.”

Eric rubbed at his face, just about covering his mouth with his yawn. He had a nice face, Dele had to admit, although half of it now covered with scruff. His eyes blurry, Dele leant over to tap his cheek gently, to tease him about not being a morning person. Eric, bless him, had the bit too earnest temperament which made him an easy target for a wind-up. 

“You probably should lay off the drinking for a while,” Dele murmured instead, rubbing his thumb along Eric’s cheekbone, feeling the springy flutter of Eric’s lashes against the pad of his thumb. “It might help. With the mornings, I mean.”

“Probably,” Eric said, and Dele didn’t know if Eric was in agreement or just humouring him. 

“Right, I should go,” Dele lowered his hand, fingers skimming across Eric’s face, his thumb dragging on Eric’s lip, only for Eric to nip at it with the tips of his teeth. In response, Dele felt his pulse skyrocket, the air in his lungs thin, making him dizzy. 

“You should,” Eric agreed, his eyes never leaving Dele’s face, the space vanishing between them. Dele's hand in Eric’s hair, Eric’s arm around his shoulder. 

None of the nervous giggles and jitters of the night before, or the clumsy manoeuvring, because they knew each other’s angles. Eric’s mouth opening against his, pliant and warm, tongue tasting of liquorice and mint. His body warm, and familiar now, as Dele skimmed his fingers along his side, resting them on Eric’s hipbone. Eric's choked noise against his mouth as he stroked the pad of muscle just over his hipbone, made him goosebumps. Dele did it again, just because, although-

“I really should go,” Dele’s broke away to rasp, his eyes sliding closed as Eric mouthed along his neck, using teeth and tongue to devastating effect. 

“Soon,” Eric soothed, his hands sliding under Dele’s shirt, tracing enchantments on his skin, his mouth whispering against Dele’s. “I’ll get you there, promise.”


	11. Chapter 11

“Hey, I didn’t know that you knew Eric Dier?” That was Patrick, sitting on the low, flat bench at the edge of the pool, brushing back the fringe of drying blonde hair that fell across his face when not held back in an Alice band. It was well time past Patrick to cut it, but he tended not to, unless it got too long, flopping over his eyes and nose like an Afghan hound. 

Dele kept on swimming in the pool, doing a slow breaststroke, taking note of the twinge in his knee. Sunday morning, and the municipal pools tended to be clear this early, what with people sleeping in late. Save the pool staff, the lad on the high chair with speakers in his ears, overlooking just the two of them, and the hum of the filters and heating, Patrick and him were the only two here, with Luke and Sheyi due to rock up shortly. 

With his knee, Dele couldn’t run long distances, although he missed it, terribly. Swimming was the best compromise, keeping him in enough shape to haul his equipment when he had to. 

“What about him?”

Patrick held up his phone, and from his vantage point, Dele saw the blur of the photographs, knew where they had been taken. Eric had arranged for them to share a cab after their night in Lisbon. He'd dropped him off at the airport, and true to his word, with Dele’s equipment cataloged, labelled and accounted for. The picture showed them sharing a warm laugh outside the airport, Dele's arm around Eric's shoulders. 

Patrick scoffed, but not unkindly. “You don’t know who he is, do you?”

“Some toff, I guess,” Dele swam over to the edge of the pool where Patrick sat, and started treading water to stay in place. 

“You’re right, on that point,” Patrick said. “He’s that type of aristo you don’t hear about unless they announce their marriage bans, or have an obituary written up because they’re so discreet. They get a ping in _Hello_ or _The Telegraph_ if they pop their head above the parapet, because they are rarely spotted in the wild. Which is why I’m just surprised that you seem to know him-” his smile sharpened. “Very well.”

“Well enough.”

“Really?” Patrick questioned, putting his phone down on the bench. He walked to the edge of the pool took a step and- fell in- leaving froth and bubbles stirring up to the surface in his wake. Dele shifted, started his breaststroke towards the pool's end, knowing that he had twenty-five more laps to get through before he left the pool today. 

“I mean, Eric Dier,” Patrick continued as he caught up with Dele’s pace and spoke without pausing. “I’m surprised.”

“About?” Dele said, focusing on his form, arms slicing through the water in front, and pulling himself along, the white noise of water and filter noises retreating to the background. 

“After Alex, I thought you were done with the storied and fashionable London set for the while.”

“And yet,” Dele answered, giving Patrick a pointed look. “We’re still friends.”

Patrick rolled his eyes, “I’m from Nottinghamshire, it doesn’t count,” he stopped, treading water. Dele made to move, as Patrick grabbed for his hand. 

“Whatever this is with Dier-” he started, “just, take care, okay?”

Dele looked at Patrick’s hand on his arm, raised his eyes to Patrick’s face, and saw the disquiet there.

“You’re going to get increased attention,” Patrick explained in low tones, with a sobriety Dele hadn’t heard from him in a while. “And you should prepare for it, you know? It doesn’t matter if you’re friends, and especially if you’re more than that. I know that you’re proud of being self-made, and your made families, but that set is about _blood_ , you understand?”

“We aren’t - it isn’t serious,” Dele lied as he pushed off, arms in front of him, churning into a freestyle before Patrick could object. He didn’t want to talk about it anymore. Mentally, Dele added ten more laps to his tally. Breakfast could wait.

***

“What’s the story, then?”

“Hmm?” Eric answered, eyeing the spread that seemed to be more of a setup for High Tea at Claridge’s than a spread at Belgrave Square, an oasis of green space in London. The tablecloths spread across low seated tables, boasting permutations of cakes proudly standing to attention on their pastel covered stands. Sandwiches labelled with ingredients, ranging from gluten-free to breads a bit more hearty and exotic. 

A very private affair; shielded from the world by stout hedges, dotted by plane trees well over a hundred years old that offered shade against the strong rays of the sun, marking the grass with delicately rounded patches of light. 

Harry reached over and grabbed a sandwich with toasted tips; decorated with swirls of thinly sliced ham and brightly decorated with vegetables. 

A late summer’s day, and Harry and Katie decided to have a party, the day scratched into the members’ calendar, with their friends and children running hither and yon, playing games and blowing balloons. Their nannies nearby, chiding them in accented tongues. 

Ryan and Kyle laughing at the far corner of the park as they talked, their girlfriends sat on the stuffed cushions around the low lying table in the foreground, their shoulders bare and burnished under the summer sun, clad in pretty dresses. 

Absently, Eric tracked Dele’s movements with his eyes. Dele now seated beside Harry’s girlfriend, Katie; her face glowing with the force of an O star- uncommonly powerful and bright. The reason for her fierce joy being the slight baby bump under the flow of her sundress, her stomach protected by her cupped hand. 

Dele gestured to the bump, and said something. Kate laughed - not that it took much to make Katie laugh- because she was a good-natured sort who found amusement in _everything_ , her free hand coming to her face and swiping a hank of her bright blonde hair away from her lip-gloss. 

“Dele’s trying to convince her to name your sprog after him, I think,” Eric said, reaching for one of the bottles of champagne in the bucket in front of him, his hand hovering for a few seconds. With a sigh, Eric changed tack and grabbed for a chilled fruit drink instead. 

“Don’t try and change the subject,” Harry crunched into the sandwich. 

“There’s nothing to say, really,” Eric took a sip at his bottle of juice, his legs curled under him.

“Really?” Harry raised an eyebrow, his brow furrowing with thought, and Eric knew what Harry wanted to ask. 

To Harry’s credit, he’d greeted Dele as warmly as he did Ryan, Kyle and Nacer, mutual friends for the past five years. Compared to Dele who rocked up as Eric’s plus one that Harry knew all of five minutes, including their time in Portugal. Harry also didn’t ask the pressing questions to make him squirm such as, ‘Lad, if there’s no story between you lot, then why is he here?’

Eric had no clue how to even answer that. 

‘And most pointedly, why’s he wooing my missus?’

As for wooing H’s missus, again, Eric had no idea. Dele just seemed to be someone put on this earth to... woo, he guessed. To make small talk, and - the corner of Eric’s mouth curved up at Katie’s giggle- _laugh_. 

“Really,” Eric repeated, having nothing else to say. 

“You know,” Harry piped up, a while later. “People are going to start to pry, ask you about him, what are you going to do?”

“We’re not serious, it’s okay,” Eric said, his eyes on Dele as he smiled his introductions to Ben who had a cricket bat in hand. Dele nodding, then turning to Katie and offered her his hand. Katie laughed again, shaking her head as she did the continental style of hello and goodbye, a kiss on each cheek. 

“Cricket?” Harry raised an eyebrow, “he might be a man after my own heart. Does he play?”

“I honestly don’t know.”


	12. Chapter 12

“You want me to what?” Eric laughed, placing a hand over Dele’s phone, batting it away. 

“Sing a song, any song.”

“No,” Eric said, eyes closed against the sunlight streaming into his room, burying himself deeply in the bedclothes. It was a Sunday morning, and short of death, he wasn’t going to be dragged out of bed for _anything_. Dele, with as much exuberance as a puppy at this time of the day, was the complete opposite. Already up in bed, scrolling through his phone, abstractly humming to himself and trying to get Eric to do things he didn’t want to do. Like... singing. 

“Why not?”

“I can’t carry a note in a bucket, that’s why.”

“That’s why you have ProTools, Diet,” Dele settled in beside him, Eric sighed and pulled him close, because Dele wasn’t finished, by a long shot. “By the time I’m finished, no one would know, you'll sound like a pop star.”

Eric’s eyes slitted open, his hands full of Dele. “I have no desire to be a pop star?”

“That’s not the point?”

Despite himself, Eric opened his eyes fully, looked at Dele, already fresh-faced because he’d bounced out of bed for a morning shower, before slinking back in under their bedcovers. His body chilled, clad in boxers and a light t-shirt. 

“What’s the point?”

“Everyone sings,” Dele said, with something approaching a Gallic shrug. “It’s not because people want to be pop stars, but they want to connect with other people. It’s like--” Dele stopped, frowning. “A mother singing a lullaby to a child, or you sharing a song with a friend because it makes you buzz, you know? Makes you feel something and you want them to feel it too.”

“Fine.” Eric said at last.

“I wouldn’t want to put you out.”

“Tosser,” Eric shot back without heat, as he held his hand up and out, wordlessly asking for the phone, and Dele slapped it in his hand. 

Eric scrolled through Dele’s mobile, the make and model the same as his. Making it an easy task to find the app for recording, opened his mouth. Stopped. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Probably I’m shy.”

“You big galoot,” Dele said, in disbelieving tones, as Eric felt him snuggling deeper, their foreheads pressing against each other, Dele’s body half on top of his, his skin smooth and chilled under the tips of Eric’s fingers. “I won’t look,” Dele said, breath smelling of mouthwash gusting across Eric’s face, “at you, I mean.” 

“Is that such a hardship then?”

“You’re no oil painting, no,” Dele threaded the fingers of their free hands together, and before Eric could protest, because he wasn’t _that_ bad looking thank you very much, Dele cracked up. 

“ _Dele_.”

“Mate, you make it too easy.”

“You’re such a wind-up. I shan’t sing then.”

“ _Diet_.”

Eric cleared his throat, brought the phone to his mouth, mind a complete blank, until the perfect song came to mind, and he started to sing. 

A bouncy, pretty Portuguese song, a soundtrack from his teenage years. It had a kicky chorus of _wow_ from the jump, that told of Saturday dances and the singer gathering up his courage to approach a cute girl. 

Self-conscious at first, his voice flat and off key, and rough from sleep, Eric’s voice wavered, but as he sang on, the particular mood of the song flooded through him. Back when joy was relatively uncomplicated, and impromptu singing with your friends the order of the day. When having a drink was nothing more than having a drink and not a problem. Eric glanced at Dele, his head bopping to the beats of the song, and in a way, Eric understood why Dele loved what he did. 

To make a song in the hopes it became a soundtrack to someone’s life somehow. An aural memory of events bonded to it like DNA. 

Although Dele didn’t understand a word, it didn’t stop him from tapping the tips of his fingers against the tops of Eric’s knuckles during the song, which settled and encouraged him to push through until the end. Eric finished, clicking the pause icon on the phone, and handed it to Dele. 

“I hope you’re right about the ProTools,” he said, his voice sounding supremely loud in the quiet. 

Dele didn’t say a word, and again, Eric read the expression there, recognised it for he felt it too. His fingers tracing Dele’s jaw, as their faces closed the distance. Dele’s mouth opening against his, Eric's eyes fluttering shut, sinking into emotions as warm and intimate as the bed they were snuggled in.


	13. Chapter 13

_“Dele!”_ Flea greeted sharply as soon as Dele sauntered in. A small studio space in Hemel Hempstead London, shared by himself with a co-operative. Flea manned the small space, a bit of a dog’s body with reception, online presence and everything else under her purview. 

“Where have you been?” she asked, voice sharp as she hurried past him, closing the door behind them both. The tobacco smoke mixed with her perfume a sensory landmark in his life. She’d never give up her crafty fags, wrapped around her signature scent of _Decadence_ , a vanilla oriental perfume with smoky notes. Today instead of her signature puff, Flea’s hair GHD smooth around her shoulders in sheets of tinted multicoloured strands. 

“I’ve been trying to get you for the past forty-eight hours.”

“I’m here now,” Dele said, knapsack hanging off his shoulder, plus a messenger bag with his computer and headphones in it. He couldn’t defend himself against Flea’s sniping because he’d been loved up all weekend, half surprised that she didn’t see it spilling out from every pore. 

“You turned your phone off because -” Flea snapped, shaking her head, holding up her hand to ward off all excuses. “You know what? It really doesn’t matter, you’re here now.”

“In the flesh,” Dele answered, moving towards the door in his studio. Key card in hand, ready to lock himself inside the booth and work. 

“Have you checked the online tabloids lately?”

Dele stopped in mid step, irritation nibbling at the edges of his blissful mood. “No, I don’t care about that. In addition, I’ve been busy.”

Flea handed him her iphone, and Dele scrolled down, _Dele Alli: The Family He Left Behind._

Other side stories alongside this article, _The Aristo and The Choosy Beggar_ , the writing cutting and catty. 

Dele scanned through the article, his heart throbbing with a hurt, as he absorbed all the information. He lifted his gaze from the phone, Flea’s eyes huge and dark with worry, her face flushing with embarrassment. 

“I tried to stop it, legally,” she explained. “But it’s all above board. All they wanted was a comment before it went to press. Or the promise of an interview to make it go away.”

Dele’s denial fast and reflexive. “No.” 

Flea sighed, crestfallen, head bowed. “I knew you’d say that.”

*** 

“You can’t just--- ignore it,” Eric said.

After the news broke, Dele grabbed his things, tugged his baseball cap over his face and had been about to go well - anywhere before Eric had called- inviting him over to his family’s house. It never ceased to amaze Dele about this part of London, Belgravia, how it felt different from everywhere else, even Knightsbridge. Georgian terraces and crescents, standing tall as if in a parade, all uniformly white, the architecture elegant and chilly, the mood around the area made you act as if you were performing Vespers in a church. 

Voices kept low, movements quiet and studied. 

The address suited Eric in a lot of ways, the quiet and handsome surroundings, as much as he tried to downplay the trappings of it. Even though he dressed shabbily, his clothes not tailored, his hair either too long or short, it didn’t hide the fact that the postcode was still achingly smart. 

Dele felt like a scruff as he stepped out of the black cab, greeted by Eric’s housekeeper. A stern, stooped figure of a woman with the manner like a beleaguered PM at the House of Commons, she greeted him with chilly formality, before excusing herself for the rest of the evening by leaving them both in the kitchen. 

“Oh? You read it then.”

The high spot of colour on Eric’s cheeks told the story, his eyes wide and blue. 

“Fucking hell.”

“You can’t expect me - not to be interested in you,” Eric explained, leaning on elbows on the dark marble of the kitchen island. “Your name is in the papers, of course, I’m going to look.” 

“It’s not your problem.”

“Not mine?” Eric scoffed, “I guess you didn’t see the article directly referencing me?”

“Yeah, you can get have that. Everything else isn’t yours,” Dele drummed his fingers against the surface of the marble. Given the lateness of the hour, the housekeeper left out crudites with both aioli and chunky tomato dressing on the kitchen island. Outside, it was quiet. Hardly the hustle and bustle of his flat in his part of London. You paid for peace and a pristine tranquillity as a part of the price tag, as well as access to private parks and tidy surroundings. 

“It’s not for anyone to know,” Dele said at last. 

“And I’m just _anyone_ ,” Eric’s voice now deceptively pleasant, his tone a warning. 

“Eric-”

“I thought, we were at the very least, mates.” Eric reached over, brushing the back of Dele’s hand with his fingers. The touch warm, intimate. Especially post-Lisbon, the last vestiges of hesitation between them melted into nothing from the heat of their kisses. 

“Not everyone can be a direct descendant of William The Conqueror,” Dele said at last. “You’re fine.”

“Indirect,” Eric corrected, annoyance seeping through now, making his words brusque. “My ancestor was born out of wedlock. But that doesn’t define me.”

“Yeah, no,” Dele shook his head. “It really does. Your name, the fact that you can swan around for however long you need before you get bored and go back to whatever your family does is fine. If you’re at a loose end, you can drink yourself three sheets to the wind. Or flog yourself in _Tatler_ or something. Just this property alone-” Dele stopped, seeing Eric stiffen. 

“Eric,” he started, taking a different tack, wanting Eric to understand, but not wanting anything between them to change. “All I have is my name. _Mine_ ,” he splayed his hand against his chest. “I’m happy with what I am now, everything else that came before doesn’t matter.”

“That’s not true.”

“Right, whatever. Your family history works for you. The point is, you’re _fine_. I’d rather be-”

“Hatched,” Eric raked his hands through his hair. “No background, just be seen as some sort of strange egg in another bird’s nest, and with just as much history. That’s your story.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Dele ground out, feeling his face heat, and temper flare. Aware of his surroundings and it being an SW1 post code, if he were to lose his temper, it wouldn’t do to lose it here. 

“Make me,” Eric almost shouted, hands outstretched in supplication. “I want to understand.”

“No,” Dele shook his head, “you just want to know everything.”

“I can’t understand if you won’t tell me anything,” Eric retorted. "Every time I ask you about yourself you shut down."

“You know what?” Dele said, pushing himself away from the kitchen island, cutting through the air with the palm of his hand. “It was a bad idea to come here. I’m sorry, I’ll call a cab and I’ll go.”

“I’ll drive you,” and that was Eric, slipping off the stool, a consummate host to the very end. But Dele shook his head.

“No,” he ground out, “It’s fine.”

“Dele-”

“I’m sorry,” Dele said again, as he turned away from Eric, swiping his phone from his pocket and tapping the cab on speed dial.


	14. Chapter 14

“I heard,” Patrick said in greeting as Dele tromped into the studio, visor from his baseball cap way down, so no-one could see his face. 

“Yeah, plastered all over the newspaper headlines,” Dele wiped at his nose. “I should have seen that coming. Stupid. Where’s Luke? I know Sheyi is taking his missus out for a meal.”

Patrick sat down beside Dele, their jean-clad knees touching. “Luke is -” 

“Is?” 

Patrick blanched his face as white as his collared shirt under his navy jumper. Dele lifted his head, angled a look at Patrick, waiting for him to finish his point. 

“In Leverkusen.”

Ah, that made sense. “With Sonny, yeah? How is that angle coming along?”

“It’s fine.” Patrick winced, his eyes narrowing as if he were in pain. 

“Spit it out.”

Dele slid about six centimetres in his chair, looking at the controls, and the time, knowing that they’d be billed for it, but he needed to hear this. 

“And Alex. Alex is there, with Luke.”

A beat, as Dele stared at the second hand of the clock, counting to ten. 

“And this has been going on for...”

“Not long, about a couple of weeks, I thought you’d have known, but you’ve been - absorbed in other things. But I think they’re serious. At least serious enough for us to have a word.”

“But not so serious for Luke to even -” Dele started and then sighed, shoulders feeling as if two ten stone weights sat on each of them. 

Luke and Alex. He tumbled their faces in his head, thought about them individually and together. Thought about how he felt. 

They made sense in a way, Luke’s laid back confidence to Alex’s easy arrogance. “It’s fine,” he said at last. “ All the best to them, really. I have more pressing concerns.”

“Your mum?” 

Dele did a noncommittal _hmm_ , because Patrick had been there from when it mattered. From dodgy Myspace photos and music samples to now. 

“What are you going to do?” Patrick asked at last.

“I,” Dele said, now looking at the analogue clock on the wall, “am going to mix this sample, and meet my deadline.”

***

Normally, Dele wasn’t a tosser, especially when it came to splashing his money around. He still remembered what it had been like, to be caught on the back foot, to be overawed by the ostentation of nice things. Like the time Sheyi and Patrick took him to a nice restaurant for his birthday, after he’d been drummed out of first team football due to injuries.

“You work from the outside in,” Patrick said, pointing out the bewildering array of cutlery. 

“And remember, porridge point and soup side,” Sheyi added, positioning the spoon against his lips. 

“Inside voice,” Patrick prompted, voice low in the almost library quiet of the restaurant, and they spent Dele’s birthday teaching him how to conduct himself from starters to dessert. After a few months of this, with Patrick doing dry runs in Dele’s kitchen, just in case, Dele felt at ease with such things. 

All this meant that Dele didn’t feel overawed as he sat in _L’Amina_ , clad in black business like clothing, almost looking like one of those glossy denizens of The City, the rose gold cuffs against the ink of the shirt just a bit too flashy for a city trader. His elbows on the table, his mouth hidden behind his fist. 

Across the white linen clad table, across the gleaming cutlery and the spotless cutlery, sat his estranged mother. Skin parchment pale, eyes a watery hazel. He knew how she would have felt, being uncomfortably judged even by the polite waitstaff as they filled the water glasses without prompting. Dele needed all the help he could get. 

He didn’t say a word, save for when the waitress presented herself to the table, sleek tablet in hand. Dele ordered a drink and a salad. He wouldn’t be staying long. 

“Dele,” she greeted, as cautious as he. Her fingers bunching the table cloth at the edge of the table, as if it were the fabric of her purse. “I’m so glad -”

“You need to stop,” Dele cut in, voice low and urgent. “You made your choice years ago, and I made mine.”

“It’s been four years,” she started, “can’t you just.”

“No,” Dele shook his head, his position resolute. “And selling stories to the tabloids won’t help. Leaving notes on my car, or on my social media -”

“It got you here, didn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Dele removed his hands from his mouth, ran a finger along the curve of one of the spoons, looked up, keeping his temper in check. “For the first and last time. What will it take to make you stay away from me?”

“I don’t -”

“Mum,” Dele said, voice low, drawing her in, seeing her soften. Only then did he drive the point home. “I’m never going to change my mind.”


	15. Chapter 15

“Hold on,” and that was Harry, handing the sterling silver gravy boat to Boots, peering at Eric. “You just... broke up?”

“We weren’t together,” Eric pointed out in stubborn tones, half wondering why he decided to show his face at this dinner anyway. Remembered because Harry and Boots were very good friends, and Harry and Katie gave good spread. The table setting something rivalling a repast set for heads of state: deep cherry wood contrasting with an off white lace runner, squat candles giving off a warm light in the centre, topped with crockery and cutlery set to a theme with its grey-blue features. The food seasonal, organic and delicious, more on the clean eating and vegetarian side. 

It never hurt to have Ryan and Nacer with their partners, because they were always good company, especially Rachel, Ryan’s girlfriend. Whip smart and easy going, she was an excellent dinner mate, sensitive to the needs of her table mates, and loyal to the end. 

“You heard him,” Rachel said stoutly, and Eric squeezed her hand, appreciating her. 

‘Okay’ Harry mouthed, as he sat down to his meal, after making sure Katie had everything. 

“But why,” Rachel turned to Eric, as she cut into her vegetarian quiche, “is he called ‘Choosy Beggar’?”

“It’s his handle,” Eric took a sip of Perrier, looked at the bottle of port in the middle of the table. Took a deeper drink of more water. “A friend used to call him by that name - and it stuck.” 

“You were going out with...” Boots frowned. “The DJ who played at my party? He’s nothing but the help, surely?”

“No,” Eric gritted out, “he’s not the help, Boots.”

Boots reached out for her wineglass and took a huge gulp of wine. “Gosh, if the newspapers are true, you pretty much dodged a bullet. Mixed race kid, dodgy beginnings, council raised, he sounds absolutely feral, I mean-”

“Shut up, Boots,” Nacer cut in. As an expat from Belgium, he used the excuse of English being his second language as an excuse to speak brusquely. “This is what the English media get terribly wrong. If this were America, he’d probably be cheered on, this mixed race guy, and how he uh - got over his poverty, no? All you see in the newspapers is that he’s a---” Nacer snapped his fingers, “ _Intrus_ , yes? Paired with the blue eyed aristo and they are freaking out, because he might not be eligible anymore.”

Eric placed his hand over his flushed face, feeling his temper rising. “It wasn’t -”

“Eric just said that he wasn’t with him!” Boots defended herself, her hands pointed in Eric’s direction, her Cartier bracelets clinking with each movement. “Why are you projecting a relationship on Eric that wasn’t there in the first place?”

A humming silence filling the room at this, as loud as angry bees. All eyes on him, ranging from Boots’ glare to Rachel’s sympathetic smile. It would have been easy to go along with Boots’ comment. To deny everything that happened between them, from their boozy encounter on a Tuesday to that Sunday morning where Eric sang because Dele had asked to. 

He didn’t have to say yes. He could keep it quiet, and not have to explain anything. 

“Because,” Eric removed his hand from his face, feeling it flame at his confession, his voice raising by a couple of octaves. “There was.”

“Bloody hell,” Boots hissed, claws out only in the way she could. “You’d have been better off poor.”

“Beatrice!” Katie’s voice snapped in the humming silence, as sharp as cracks in ice. She wasn’t one to intervene in quarrels but judging by the flush in her cheeks, Boots had gone beyond the pale, even for her. “I’ve met Dele, and he’s been nothing but lovely, regardless of what the papers say. Besides, we really can’t go by what the papers say, can we?” 

“I should go,” Eric piped up a few tense beats later, absolutely horrified by his love life being a topic of conversation. 

“No, don’t,” Rachel shook her head, her eyes soft with feeling, diamonds shooting points of light at her ears, dark hair in a chignon. “Eric, we rarely get caught up.”

“I’ll visit you,” Eric leant over, pressing his cheek against Rachel’s, and shaking Ryan’s hand behind her chair at the same time. “Soon, I promise.”

“I’ll show you to the door,” Harry pushed himself from the table, sending a baleful look in Boots’ direction. Boots, unrepentant as ever, kept sipping at her wine glass. 

“Wow,” Harry said, as he drew the door closed behind them. “I mean, _really_?”

“Not you too,” Eric groaned as he walked across the driveway towards his car, a dark low slung beauty he only wheeled out for nights like this. 

Harry held up his hands in surrender, shaking his head. “I like the guy. I mean, he’s a nice lad, and he’s done well for himself. I hope you two work it out.”

Eric didn’t know what to say about _that_. Uncomfortable with being the object of sympathy, he said nothing at all, climbed into his car, and sped off.

***

“This is how I live,” Dele’s voice cut into his consciousness, a narrator over the video being played, spliced bits of him in action behind the turntables at an event, his arm around the model he’d seen at the shoot at their second meeting. “All work, some play. Others chase the sun around the world, but I am always on the hunt for the next beat. For excellence, there’s no finish line. This is how I live, in my Hugo Boss.”

Eric clicked the phone off and slipped it in his trouser pocket. He had a twelve o’ clock appointment with his dad’s lawyer, and it took all of his willpower not to order a long island iced tea, or any pint on draft, knowing that it was his excess which had gotten him into trouble in the first place. The Constitution was a friendly pub, in the elbow of Pimlico in the shadow of Westminster, an area with discreet bars well known to all, and to him especially.

This really wasn’t the day to meet anyone, especially not after two days of Dele and himself calling off what they didn’t have in the first place, and the blowout at Harry’s with Boots and -

“Eric.”

“Peter,” Eric stood up, shaking his dad’s counsel’s hand, ushered into sitting down, feeling for all about thirteen, and when he got that report card in ninth grade. 

Peter Enfield had been a friend of the family and their lawyer since Eric's birth, his father’s proxy for a lot of things, overseeing Eric's suspension from the firm being one of them. 

“Have you been well?” Peter asked, pale green eyes looking over silver rimmed glasses, his slender hand smoothing thinning hair over his balding plate. 

“Yes,” Eric said, because yes, he had to be. Even though he just wanted to curl up in bed and have a lie in, and not think about lacing his tea with Chivas Regal. 

“Your father asked me to meet you here today, with the hope that you’ve taken the time to think about things.”

Eric blushed, looking at the architecture of the buildings outside the window, before looking back at Peter. 

“You can tell him that I’m sorry for my behaviour, about dismissing the social aspect of our business out of turn and being an embarrassment,” he said after a few moments. “I shan’t do that again.”

“Do you think you might need help? Your fath -”

“No,” Eric shook his head as he held up his tonic water and lime. “I’m getting a handle on things, thank you.” A beat, as he asked, “is he still mad at me?”

Peter’s smile was kind, verging on sympathetic. “More disappointed,” he said, as if that wasn’t worse than anger. Anger you could burn off in no time, but disappointment? That pain took a bit more time to ebb. “I think we’ll have you back in a month. You’ll be sent some projects that you can work on from out of office before we start phasing you in. Looking at your accounts, I noticed that you haven’t touched your allowance excess, even though it's been reduced?”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

“Right,” Peter smiled, waving off offers for a drinks and lunch menu from the hovering waitress. “If you need anything, call.”

With that, Peter left. Eric stayed in his seat, one of the few people in the pre-lunch wave of the pub. And because he couldn’t possibly feel any worse, he opened up his phone, looked for that stupid video with Dele's face, and played it again. On mute this time.


	16. Chapter 16

_Somerset House, South Side of the Strand; London_

Eric stepped out of the car, adjusting his tie, scanning the area for his liaison officer, and just on the off chance to see if he knew anyone here. 

Somerset House was a grand sprawl of a building in the Neoclassical design, with clean elegant lines, free standing columns and loads of windows reflecting the light. The forecourt expansive and stately, a nod to its historical origins as a Tudor castle, and where Elizabeth I lived for a bit while her half sister had been queen. 

Eric’s assignment came from his father, via Peter. Eric gritted his teeth at it, almost rolling his eyes at the thought of having to show his face regarding an exhibition titled, “Soundscapes of Europe”, but it was a way back into his family’s graces after everything. Leaving nothing to chance, he had handed himself over to the good people at Selfridges London to perform miracles at their most splendid. 

As a result, Eric received the best haircut he’d gotten in a while, his hair falling into place no matter how many times he ran his hands through it in frustration. Stepping through the enormous archway by the Strand entrance, he heard his name being called. 

“Hey! Diet! Dier!”

Eric turned in the direction of the voice, face brightening when he saw who it was. “Danny, oh hallo!”

“Long time no see,” Danny grinned, and Eric found himself caught up in a half hug, the top of Danny's head hitting his shoulder. For the first time in a week, Eric felt his spirits lift, as Danny stepped back, looking sharp in a light coloured suit with his equipment hanging off him. 

“It’s been a while, true,” Eric agreed, “what brings you here, then? Assignment?”

“Yeah,” Danny nodded, “A couple, but what about you?”

“My family’s firm is a sponsor for this exhibition,” Eric explained, as he walked towards the rooms, guessing that his liaison would be there. 

“So you drew the short straw, eh?”

“No,” Eric shook his head as they walked towards the North wing. “It’s a pleasure to do it, really.”

“Dele’s been buzzing about it for the better part of a year.”

An ugly record scratch across the serene and boring images Eric had projected this event to be. 

“Dele’s here?”

“Oh yeah,” Danny chundered on, oblivious to Eric’s momentary distress. “Son Heung-Min is the artist in residence, and he’s doing an installation with various deejays. I’m surprised Dele didn’t tell you.”

“He’d have had to keep the information embargoed,” Eric answered smoothly, now on autopilot, despite the sharp knock of his heart against his ribcage. “Listen,” he said, “I -”

“I understand,” Danny said, “I’ll let you go. We should catch up over a drink sometime, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Eric said, as they exchanged warm handshakes, before going their separate ways. “Sure.”

***

After a year of planning, and fretting and hoping, their exhibition of music and noise was done. Dele shrugged on the jacket with special wires that connected his heart rate to the music, his heat signature creating light and patterns that helped to contribute to the spectacle, like everyone else.

The forecourt their stage, the facade of the East, South and West Wing popping with colour, Sonny and his engineers creating shapes along the walls, colours that changed with the heat signatures everyone had on their bracelets, that collected and redirected their energies. 

The technicalities were way over Dele’s head, even when Sheyi tried to explain it, but Sonny only waved it away. 

“Your only job is to get people dancing,” he said to the fleet of music producers there in German-accented English. “We’ll take care of the rest, please.” Dele took that to heart, and he did, rocking with his jacket besieged in LED lights, that created shapes and patterns with each movement. The evening helped, the inky sky a heightened contrast to the lights and atmospherics. 

“Hello, chaps,” Dele greeted, his form crawling and sparking with lights like a Catherine Wheel. Him and his turntables on a crane about forty metres high, high enough to see the elbow of the Thames, and the lights flickering on each bank. Looking below, at the forecourt, the people waved, their bracelets glowing around their wrists, a vast undulating sea of colour. The atmosphere sharp with anticipation, the first song the most important, because it would set the mood for the rest of the night. With a grin, Dele raised a hand, absorbing the screams, and didn't speak until the noises fell away. In the quiet, he commanded;

“Let’s go!”

***

Grabbing for a towel from the house attendants, who were just college students turning up for a night’s wage, Dele mopped at his brow, and made his way to the artists’ changing rooms, high fiving everyone who’d been a part of it. Sonny, whose art made the whole thing otherworldly, surreal, a post _Tron/ Blade Runner_ hybrid. Sheyi and Luke and Patrick, who were already in various stages of undress, plus the planax of workers he could barely name and count.

“We do need to go out in the next fifteen,” said Patrick, as he shrugged into his dress shirt. Dele aware of the drill, having to go out and meet the many sponsors who put a lot of money together to make this happen. No one had time to shower, just grab for the many wet wipes, deodorants and go. He gingerly shrugged into his suit, taking care not to crease it. 

“Thank you so much for doing this, everyone,” that was Patrick, turning on the charm with characteristic warmth. “Now, when we go out, remember to thank our sponsors, they will be -” and Dele shut off, because he knew the drill. Their sponsors would be wearing tiny badges with the logo of Somerset house teamed with their individual branding. He slid into his dress shoes, and went out with everyone, the after party staid, almost polite, but he knew the ways of it. No different to presenting yourself for sponsorship at every level, be it sport or music. 

The after-party took place in the West Wing, done for the benefit of sponsors, artists and those who got invitations by dint of knowing people. Eric would have known how to describe the West Wing, the thought came to Dele unbidden. All he knew was that the corridors were spacious, the floors underfoot blonde wood. The windows massive, letting the outside world in. 

Dele now in the throes of conversation with Melanie, a sweetly plump woman who might have reminded him of what you thought a West Indian grandmother would look like; skin the colour of teak, her form swathed in brightly patterned kaftan, and locs coiled on-top of her head like a crown. 

“I-” Dele started, cut off by Patrick’s greeting, as he felt his arm across his shoulders, and flashing a smile at his companion. 

“Excuse me,” Patrick said. 

“Oh must you go?” she cooed, fluttering her lashes at Dele, “We were having such a lovely time, speaking about the soundscapes in Trident’s _Cracked Glass_.”

“Really?” Patrick leaned forward, his voice filled with interest. Dele took a step back, knowing that Patrick was gone. Put him in front of a woman with interesting musical things to say and Patrick would be in thrall to her for as long as the conversation lasted.

“What struck you the most?”

“I did like how dancehall was incorporated into the work. The use of Capleton was a good touch. Considering that a lot of foreign artists who hear dance hall tend to -”

Patrick now drawn in, allowed his hand to fall off Dele’s shoulders, and like that, Dele knew he was on his own. He looked at his watch, gave himself another forty-five minutes to press the flesh before he bid his goodbyes and head home. Dele’s eyes scanned the area, his eyes snagging and narrowing at Luke and Alex standing near the windows exchanging lively conversation, their eyes only on each other. Dele observed them for two minutes, trying to find anything to hate about them, about _this_ to annoy him- but no, he was alright with it. Good luck to them. 

With a shake of his head, Dele moved on, and bumped into someone. 

“Oh mate,” Dele stepped aside, “I’m sorry. I-”

“It’s okay, I-” and Dele recognised that voice. Gordon Bennett, two exes at the same party, did he kill a priest in a former life or what? 

Eric stood in front of him, eyes wide with recognition, and strangely, looking like the first time they met, but sharper, and brighter, as if photo-shopped into crisper resolution. It might have been the haircut, the tamed scruff or Eric's form clad in a sharp suit he knew Patrick would have been nodding at with great approval. 

“Dele,” and yeah, Eric sounded the same. “I saw your set,” he started to smile and paused in mid-motion, as if he were unsure, and defaulted to the polite mien he always had in his arsenal. 

“Yeah?” Dele said, knowing that he should go, but couldn’t take his eyes off Eric, and made to reach for him, but realising where they were, he drew his hand back. 

"Yeah, it was good, you really outdid yourself this time. Congratulations." 

“Thanks for that,” Dele did a casual salute, index and forefinger touching his forehead and then away. “We should catch up sometime, but not now, I really need to go.” 

Forty-five minutes of staying around and pressing the flesh would have to be another day. 

Dele slipped past Eric, near enough to catch the whiff of his cologne, and his heart skipped a beat at Eric's familiar scent. The lemon figgy- peppery scent of it. 

“No, wait,” Eric said quickly, stretching his hand towards him. Dele could have avoided it, seeing Eric’s movement two beats before Eric touched his forearm. But Dele recognised they were in a crowded room, with roaming eyes. However they ended it, Eric deserved respect. 

“Eric-”

“I know, you need to go. I have a car outside,” Eric whispered, his face suddenly sober. “I’m on a curfew, so I can’t stay out too late myself.”

“If you drop me off at the nearest tube station-” Dele hedged, not surprised when Eric shook his head no. 

“I’ll run you home.”

“I’m fifty minutes away by car, the tube is faster.”

“I’ll run you home,” Eric repeated.


	17. Chapter 17

“I’m not lying about having a curfew,” Eric explained, in the quiet of the car. Not that he had a driver at his disposal all the time, but this event demanded it. The partition between them and their driver closed for privacy purposes. Again, not that Eric used this much, but the occasion demanded it. 

Dele didn’t look in his direction, just stared at the lights outside, the traffic crawling past, because London at any time of night, especially at the weekend was chockablock with traffic. Dele’s profile sweetly familiar, limed by the lights outside.

“Why do you have a curfew?”

“Remember that morning in Lisbon after we-” Eric’s voice trailed off, his face warmed with memory. After a beat, he cleared his throat. “Where you told me I probably needed to drink less?”

“Yeah.”

“You were spot on more than you know. A couple of months before that, I represented my family’s firm at a do, and I got terribly, disturbingly drunk. After many times of getting terribly, worryingly drunk.”

Dele gave a quick shrug of his shoulders, shooting Eric a look. “You’re English, it’s allowed.”

“Not with my father. I was still showing up, doing the work, the serious parts. I just got sloppy social wise and got cut off. We haven’t spoken since. Unless you count by proxy and it’s terrible, but I deserve it. Dele...” Unable to help himself, he reached over, touched the back of Dele’s hand, and found himself rewarded with Dele leaning into the car seat, his attention on him.

“I didn’t care about what was written in the papers, I don’t. But I wanted - want -to know more about you. You never-" _shared_ , Eric wanted to say, but he closed that off. Now wasn't the time for recriminations, but he could still say how he felt, couldn't he? "I’m not sorry for my interest.”

“There’s nothing to -” Dele started, stopped, tapping his index finger against his lips with his other hand. "The story is boring."

"Try me," Eric prompted, his eyes never leaving Dele's face. 

After a short humming silence, Dele rolled his eyes. “I played football, and it was everything I wanted to do, I even left home because there was nothing there," his eyes softened at the memory. " Until I got injured, and I couldn’t play anymore. So... I started fooling around with an old computer, an Amiga 500, putting out tunes on MySpace. I met Patrick who gave me his used Amiga 1200 and I just-” Dele laughed, and the air in the car lightened. “It was amazing, and suddenly the loss of football didn’t hurt as much anymore.”

“And your Mu-”

“Not all relationships are meant to be saved, Diet.”

Eric thought about Boots and her outburst at the dinner party and how they hadn't spoken to each other since. “I understand.” 

Even though Dele was right, and it took longer to get to Dele’s flat from The Strand by car instead of the train, the journey still ended too soon. 

“Thanks for this,” Dele said as the car stopped at the kerb as he reached for his seatbelt. “Thank your driver for me too.”

“I will,” Eric said, and because if you didn’t ask you didn’t get, he put it out there. “Are you free next week?” 

Dele frowned his fingers on the latch. “Not before Wednesday, there’s something I need to do. What time’s your curfew?”

“If you’re stopping by mine, it doesn’t matter.”

Dele raised an eyebrow as the invitation hit home. “Night, Eric,” he said finally, before opening the door and slipping out into the night. 

“Night, Dele,” Eric said in the empty space as soon as the door closed.

***

Dele, true to his word, turned up on Wednesday evening with a box, that he handed to Eric.

“Oh you bought a cake? You didn’t have to I- ” Eric asked, puzzled, realising the box was entirely too small to be a cake. About twenty cm by fifteen by four cm in depth. It was pretty plain and when he shook it, it made noise. 

“It’s a jigsaw puzzle?” Eric frowned, even more puzzled.

“Probably,” Dele said, as they drifted towards the kitchen, where he sniffed the air. “Wow, something smells brilliant. I didn’t know you cooked?”

“Oh no,” Eric shook his head in Dele’s direction. “I asked Mrs G to pull something together before she left. Brisket with roast potatoes I think? It’s about twenty minutes away from being done. Are you hungry now? If you-”

“No, I can wait.”

“Well,” Eric held up the box and shook it, “shall we do this then?” 

Eric was right, it was a jigsaw puzzle, without a lead picture to go with. He opened the box, spread the pieces across the breakfast nook in the kitchen. Since it was only two of them, it made no sense to eat dinner in the formal dining room. 

“Is this a joke?” he asked, turning the pieces over. 

“It’s about 150 pieces, when we put them together, there’s a surprise there.”

“Curiouser and curiouser,” Eric shook his head, as he started slotting the pieces together, rejecting those that didn’t fit. 

Soon, Eric and Dele got into the swing of things, their foreheads touching, no noise save the ticking of the timer on the stove. 

“How goes your curfew?” Dele asked, slotting two pieces together, and Eric laughed at the picture of a wind-up toy with two sausage-like figures arms around each other's sides.

“It goes,” Eric focused on the puzzle, laying out the picture in front of him. The figures were cute, with the typical smiley faces. Round eyes and a perfect 'U' of a smile. And the rest of the puzzle seemed to be letters. “I’ll get there in the end. What have you been up to?”

“Getting an NDA sorted,” Dele slotted what looked like the letters LE, Eric found another piece that seemed to match, getting the T down. 

“An NDA?” Eric lifted his head, his brows beetling into a frown. “That’s a -” he stopped, looking at Dele in horrified sympathy, reaching for Dele’s wrist and gently squeezed it, feeling the slight tremor there. “Oh Dele, I’m so sorry.”

“I’m not,” Dele answered in the sure way he had about him. As in he’d made his decision and had no qualms going forward. “Patrick thinks it’s slightly nuclear, but if my Mum wants a conversation, it won’t be through the tabloids.”

“Not that anything can be slightly nuclear,” Eric scoffed, taking his hand away from Dele’s wrist, because Dele didn’t do distress for long. Eric now slapping the pieces together quicker. The 150 piece puzzle pieces were big, and the shapes regular enough to get it done. 

“And how goes sobriety, Diet?”

“Oh, it’s a bloody ‘mare,” Eric laughed, with a heavy dose of self-mockery, fitting three pieces together on the trot. Ahh yes, he loved it when that happened. “I feel like a twat ordering mock-tails when everyone else is throwing down English gardens, Bloody Marys, Mojitos and the lot. A virgin daiquiri is just a chunky strawberry lemonade, chaps, and I shouldn’t be charged the same fo- - _oh_ ” His breath hitched again, as the puzzle spelt itself out as he slotted the last piece in. 

“Oh?” Dele asked, and Eric covered his mouth with his hand, his body shaking with laughter, as he tried to hold the giggles in. 

“What?” Dele asked, looking at the finished puzzle, before he too echoed, _“Oh.”_ But with less amusement and more embarrassed confusion. 

Eric leant into his seat, unable to stop his peals of laughter before he read the rest of the message which quickly sobered him up. For the first time in a long time, Eric felt bashful, and desperately unsure how to finesse this. His gulp audible, his face close to Dele’s, shocked at how Dele seemed capable of arriving and set up base camp at these emotional places before he did; and wondering how on earth he had the patience and confidence to wait until Eric got caught up. 

“Same,” he said, the misspelling in the puzzle not mattering, now that the message sank in. Another swallow, because this was hard for him, to speak so plainly, but if Dele had the wherewithal to go get a puzzle proclaiming his feelings, the least Eric could do was say it. 

“I love you too,” and, wow, this was hard, but teasing him for his terrible spelling wasn’t. “But I won’t call you ‘sweatheart’ though.”

Dele covered his face with his palm. “I’m never going to live this down, will I?”

Eric shook his head, “No, not as long as we’re together, sorry.” 

“So it will be forever then.”

“Yeah,” Eric answered, feeling his face flame once more, but not from temper this time, as he reached for Dele’s free hand, and threaded their fingers together. Looked at Dele and stone cold stupid giddy happy with everything, said, “Yeah,” again. 

Fin

**Author's Note:**

> Notes  
> 
> 
>   * [SW1- SW7 are pretty expensive post codes in London. The most exclusive is SW1. Belgravia is the most expensive and exclusive postcode in London. A lot of embassies tend to be based there. ](https://www.wikiwand.com/en/Belgravia%20%20)
>  
>   * The Belgrade Park [/ - private park in London since 1800s. You need to live in the surrounding areas to have a key to get in, but it's so pretty! ](http://www.grosvenorlondon.com/our-customers/gardens/belgrave-square-garden)
>  
>   * [ High tea is a thing in most posh hotels over here in Britain (particularly in England). Expensive, but worth an experience. ](http://www.telegraph.co.uk/travel/destinations/europe/united-kingdom/england/london/articles/Londons-ten-best-afternoon-teas/)
>   * [ \- This is the song in the fic Eric sings to Dele. In novels, you can’t write out words to songs because the licence fees for published lyrics are too expensive. Hence a lot of writers tend to reference Shakespeare because he's free](https://www.wikiwand.com/en/Ai_Se_Eu_Te_Pego)
>   * Somerset House - grand building in London, used for exhibitions and you can ice skate in the forecourt come Christmas [entry is free](https://www.wikiwand.com/en/Somerset_House).
>   * The little figures in the jigsaw puzzle Eric and Dele are doing are [these guys](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dh3alJLVbuI)
>   * Grade Listed Houses in Britain are those that are of 'architectural interest' in terms of preserving its history. If you have a grade 1 or 2 listed house, you have to ask permission before you made amendments to it, iirc
>   * Trinity Certification - For the music certifications in the UK and the Commonwealth, this is what we do for grading in voice and musical instruments. I think the grades start from 1 and go to grade 8 (I bounced out of music theory in grade two many years ago, so)
>   * Tatler is a high-class society mag published by Conde Nast. Think Hello! but instead of reality TV stars, think aristocrats and the fashionable set. People who do shape trends and have a lot of power/land/money, but no one knows who they are?
>   * NDA- non disclosure agreement 
>   * A few aristocrats in England can trace their bloodline all the way back [William the Conqueror, the first Norman King of England. Supposedly, the descendants got land and titles after his death and some aristos will have titles but not much wealth, and marry wealthy non-titled people.](https://www.wikiwand.com/en/William_the_Conqueror) Supposedly, there were no illegitimate children of William the Conqueror running around but I've taken liberties with history for this story. 
> 

> 
>  

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [loose ends [podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12474744) by [ItsADrizzit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsADrizzit/pseuds/ItsADrizzit)




End file.
